The Nameless Road

by neuralignition

Summary:

Snape made an oath. Mostly-Muggle Harry helps him keep it.

Notes:

This was written for Snape_Potter's AU/AR themed fest, Road Not Taken. Many many thanks to the mods who allowed me extra time to finish this.

Title: The Nameless Road
Author: neural_ignition
Other pairings/threesome: Brief mention of Harry/OCs
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 40,910
Summary: Snape made an oath. Mostly-Muggle Harry helps him keep it.
A/N: Writing this fic would not have been half as fun or complete if it weren’t for frnklymrshnkly, who was an absolutely brilliant brilliant beta, chatting with me for hours to brainstorm, supporting me throughout this fic with encouragements and kind words, and transforming a barely readable fic into something more with her smooth wordings and britpick. Many, many amazing lines in this fic are from frnklymrshnkly. The remaining errors are mine. This story uses several direct quotes from the books, and they belong to J.K. Rowling.

The Nameless Road

“I need to find Harry Potter, Severus.”

Severus blinked, not sure if he’d heard correctly. When Albus Dumbledore had requested his presence in his office in the dead of night, this was the last thing he had expected to hear. Severus had expected some emergency with the Order, or some other dire situation that required his immediate attention. Instead, Dumbledore spoke of a name he hadn’t heard in nearly two decades, excepting the occasional mention in a history book or from the mouths of bored public house gossips.

The name Harry Potter was like an old, dusty picture frame: not quite forgotten, and still capable of stirring up memories.

“Why now?” he asked.

Dumbledore gazed back at him evenly.

“Nineteen years without a search party – no posters, or even a public announcement when the boy disappeared that night,” said Severus. Or died that night. “And you didn’t mention a single word about the boy last year after the Dark Lord’s resurrection.”

Everyone had assumed the boy had perished in the fire. His cot had been burnt to the ground, a mere pile of ash next to Lily’s cold body.

Dumbledore looked solemn, stroking his beard. “I went to the Department of Mysteries to store the Mirror of Erised a few days ago,” he said. “The orb is still glowing, Severus.”

His eyes widened at the implication of the statement.

The orbs that recorded prophecies turned dim when the person of interest was dead.

“Harry Potter is still out there. Alive.”

But why did it occur to Dumbledore only now to check on the Orb? Why take interest in whether the boy lived or not after all these years?

“And why are you bothering to tell me this?” he asked cautiously.

“There is a potion known to track down an individual’s location.”

Of course. He clenched his teeth. “And you want me to brew it?”

“Yes, Severus. The potion requires precision, and the need to maintain secrecy in this matter cannot be overstressed. You are the only person with whom I trust this task.”

'Trust,' indeed. He sneered. You do not trust an obedient dog that has no choice but to follow orders. The 'trust' Dumbledore placed in him was not so much faith in Severus, as the expectation that his orders (disguised as requests) would be readily fulfilled as per his oath.

“You ask too much of me, Dumbledore,” he scowled.

It was he who had had to deal with Quirrell and his scheme to obtain the stone; secure a supply of healthy roosters while helping Pomona with Mandrake Juice; acquire Bellatrix Lestrange’s hair for reasons unknown; tell Black to bring his house-elf to Dumbledore’s office; and risk his life to relay information on Death Eater raids without drawing suspicion.

Severus was tired of being Dumbledore's errand boy.

“Lily’s son is alive,” said Dumbledore, his tone almost chiding.

Severus whirled around. “Don’t!” he shouted. “Don’t. You were the one who was careless with her safety when I warned you–”

Dumbledore’s eyes turned wistful. He seemed to have deteriorated into a mere shadow of his merciless past self, who would have seized the opportunity to take advantage of Severus’s guilt and shame.

Severus turned on his heel, silently fuming. How dare he use Lily against him. He was about to storm out when Dumbledore called out behind him.

“If you help me find Harry Potter, I will free you from your obligation."

He paused mid step. “You’ll unbind me?” he breathed.

But that didn't make any sense. Why would Dumbledore free him of his obligation if he found Harry Potter? Given the circumstances that had led to his making the oath, wouldn't Dumbledore want it kept intact in order to ensure that Severus had no choice but to protect the boy should the need arise?

“Yes, Severus. You have had enough of answering to an old man. This will be the last request I ask of you.”

~*~

Low murmurs and occasional bouts of loud chatter surrounded him. The local pub had lured Severus in after three long days of arduous searching, and the cold lager was a heavenly relief on his parched lips.

The search was unsuccessful. The Blood Trace Potion required an extremely rare species of Nightshade only found in this part of the world, nevertheless, it was so seldom found that its common name was Century Flower.

He was acutely aware that this was his only chance to be freed from Dumbledore’s damnable oath, and he couldn’t even find the ingredients necessary to brew the potion he needed to find the wretched child. That is, assuming Petunia, as his only living relative, would agree to donate a drop of blood when the time came. Severus also found that improbable.

He scowled as he nursed his drink.

“Je voudrais une bière, s’il-vous-plaït,” said a voice right above his ear. And then there was a weight leaning in over his shoulders as a bare arm reached out to take the offered pint.

Severus’s eyes lazily swept over the leanly muscled arm with an appreciative gleam.

The man’s shoulders bumped into his.

He moved away from the stranger invading his space, and when he lifted his gaze to see the face of the interloper, he froze.

Severus couldn’t believe his eyes.

There was a young man bearing an uncanny resemblance to James Potter – wild hair and all – so much so that Severus would have thought Potter had come back to life if he wasn’t wearing spectacles.

As the James-Potter-doppelganger straightened up and turned to find a seat, Severus jumped and reached out to grip his arm.

Startled, the man flinched and whipped his head around. “What–?” That the man reflexively answered in English was not lost on Severus.

“What’s your name?” he demanded with such ferocity that the man stammered out, “E-Evan Smith.”

His grip slackened. Not Harry Potter. But then again, Harry Potter had gone missing when he was an infant, so how was he to know his own name?

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

Now the man was eyeing him suspiciously.

Same age as Potter if he were alive. Severus felt his heart race. Harry Potter’s body was never found in the ruins in Godric’s Hollow.

The man tried to tug his arm out of his grip. “Look, I’m about to leave–”

“I will pay for your drinks,” he said hastily, unwilling to let the man go. “And for your dinner, if you haven’t eaten.”

The man eyed him suspiciously. “If you’re trying to flirt with me, you’re doing a really, really bad job right now.”

Severus, taken aback by the impudence of the suggestion, spluttered, “I am certainly not,” and he scowled.

“Then why?”

His mind raced.

He put on a bittersweet smile. “I’m just looking for a little company.”

The man silently regarded him for a while and, shrugging, he nodded and sat down on the chair opposite him.

Now that he had a proper look at the man, he could tell that he was identical to James Potter: the confident but false bravado, the awareness of his own charm, the hair purposely ruffled to draw attention, the swagger along the lines of his body…

“So…What do you do?”

He despised making small talk, but Severus told himself not to rush. If years of mastering the art of brewing had taught him anything, it was that patience was a virtue. Precise patience with carefully measured timing.

The man called Smith took a swig of the pint.

“I’m taking a gap year. Or rather, gap years. Doing part-time jobs, or regular jobs here and there to make enough money for my tuition. I’m studying to be a social worker, before you ask.”

A student. He was financially strained. Severus stored the information away.

“You?”

“I teach.”

“Really?”

“You look surprised.”

The man flushed. “I mean, you look…you look like the type to immerse yourself in research, away from kids.”

“If you’re implying that I look unsociable, then you are correct.”

He flushed again.

“Fortunately, my teaching position also gives me some time and resources to conduct research, so it is not completely without merit.”

“What do you teach?”

He paused. What was a Muggle equivalent of Potions?

“Chemistry.”

The grimace on the man’s face told him it wasn’t his favorite subject when he was in school.

Had this man been educated in a Muggle primary school? Was he actually a Muggle who coincidentally resembled James Potter?

“I’m sure you’re a great teacher,” the man offered, with a smile.

Severus scoffed.

~*~

Whatever had led the man to seek out the comfort of a cold drink in the first place, it was frustrating enough for him to continue ordering pints as the evening progressed.

As they drank, they introduced themselves properly and discussed what business had brought them to this French-speaking town. Severus laced the truth with lies, and told the man he had come in hopes of finding a rare plant to research its chemical properties, but to no avail.

After half an hour, and several pints between them, Smith had become quite tipsy; his eyes were slowly drooping, a lazy smile splayed on his lips, and his balance was slightly off-kilter as he leaned to the right.

Severus didn’t let his guard down, his eyes intent on not missing any detail the man presented about himself.

“Are you a local?” Severus was careful to keep his tone nonchalant.

The man shook his head. It brought attention to his wild, jet-black hair, which was frankly appalling. It looked as if a flock of snidgets had tried to nest on his head.

“No. I’ve been here for about… three months? My shift ended today.”

“You must be quite fluent in French to have worked here.”

“Yeah. Grew up in France since I was ten.”

“Your English is impeccable.”

He shrugged. “I lived in England ‘til I was ten, and I went to uni in London for a year.”

“That is quite a long time to be away from home.”

The man gave him a wry smile. “Don’t really have a place to call home. I move around a lot.”

Severus arched his eyebrow.

The man took a gulp of his drink. Severus watched, transfixed, as his Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Grew up in an orphanage.” The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Severus inwardly winced at the uncouth behavior.

“So, you don’t know what happened to your parents?” he asked. “I do not mean to pry, of course,” he added. Severus had to remind himself it was too soon to get his hopes up.

The man shrugged. “Could have been anything. Someone found me on the streets and brought me to a local orphanage.”

Severus leaned in. “When?”

“I think the papers said end of October or early November. Dunno exactly when. I was just a baby – less than a year old. And the…” he swallowed “the first orphanage, they weren’t too meticulous about keeping records.”

‘First?’

“Where is this orphanage? If you don’t mind me asking, that is,” he added.

“Uhm. Somewhere in Dorset. Or Devon, I think.”

That wasn’t near Godric’s Hollow. But it wasn’t terribly far either. And ‘end of October or early November’? The Potters were attacked on Halloween.

Smith shook his head. “Christ, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

“I asked,” he replied simply. His heart thrummed in his chest.

“Well, yeah, but normally I tell people to piss off and mind their own business,” said the man with a chuckle.

“Did you remain at the orphanage until you came of age?”

“Uhm, no.” he said. An odd look flicked across his face. “Well, yes. Sort of.”

Severus arched an eyebrow.

“I had a sort of… adoptive parents. Foster parents, actually.” he said. “For about half a year.”

The man’s body language shifted, his muscles taut with tension and… fear? Guilt? It was hard deciphering emotions that he had never seen in James Potter. But this peculiar reaction… Severus recalled observing something similar in a few of his Snakes who had experienced a shock or trauma.

“Did they hurt you?” he gently probed.

The man startled, aghast. “No! They would never! ” His gaze skittered away. “They were the nicest people I’ve ever met, and actually sweet to me…”

Smith’s face was unreadable, his fingers anxiously drumming the table.

“It is not a shame if you think they were nice. Some people can be kind, or seem kind, and also be abusive.”

Smith’s jaw clenched, his knuckles white. That emotion was easy to read. It was anger.

“You don’t know a thing about them–” he snarled.

“I do know some children justify abuse by telling themselves they were in the wrong and that they forced nice people to become abusive.”

“It’s not like that!” He slammed his fist onto the table.

The hair on his neck stood on end as something shifted in the air – subtle, yet wild.

Smith drew in a sharp gasp and quickly dropped his hands to his sides. The man chewed on his lips and looked down. The table stilled from the impact, but the pints continued to rattle, their contents swishing. Severus’s eyes narrowed. He swore one of the pint glasses floated, albeit less than an inch, and settled back down.

A look of panic dissolved before Severus could grasp it.

The man breathed deeply and let out a steady breath as if he had done this many times – a familiar routine.

“I apologise. That was presumptuous of me,” Severus offered.

“Yes,” the man gritted out.

“This is quite a fine brew,” said Severus, steering away the conversation.

“Yes, it is. Have you tried the wine from the local vineyard? It’s amazing.” The man gladly accepted the divergence.

It took another half an hour for the man to relax again. He checked the time. It was getting late.

Severus leaned in and said in a low voice, “Have you ever had strange things happen around you? Or done things you couldn’t explain when you were angry or frightened?”

The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, great. An occult fanatic.” He made a move to get up.

Severus would have believed this man was indeed a Muggle if he hadn’t seen a flash of alarm crossing his face and witnessed the little mishap just moments before.

He reached out to grasp him.

“Have you?” he repeated.

The man chewed on his bottom lip, eyes darting nervously. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Liar.

Years of being a teacher had honed Severus’s lie detecting skills, especially when it came to young people.

“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about,” said Severus. “Evan,” he added.

He still looked uncertain.

“I’ve had similar things happen around me. Some I couldn’t control out of fear and anger. Others deliberate, but no one knew it was my doing,” said Severus evenly, careful not to scare the man off.

“Like what?” he asked sharply.

“A crowded pub is hardly the place to show it to you.”

The man laughed despite himself. “Is that an innuendo, or another attempt to lure me somewhere dodgy?”

He ignored the man’s amused remark.

“I assure you, I do not mean you harm. I know the words alone do not give you comfort or a sense of security, but I ask you to trust me,” he said. “Besides, I am twice your age, and no doubt you could knock me out in a second.”

The man’s eyes swept over him. “Oh, I don’t know, you seem to have strong legs and shoulders.”

Was he trying to flirt with him? Severus shook the thought away.

The man pursed his lips and scrutinised him. Severus tried to maintain cool composure under the gaze.

“I’m trying to determine if you’re being honest, or if you’re some henchman for a human trafficking racket.”

“If you are uncomfortable following me to my room, we can go to anywhere you feel safe, as long as it is secluded.”

The man didn’t look entirely convinced.

Severus could see the wheels turning in his mind. He did have to applaud the man’s alcohol tolerance and his vigilance as, even in his inebriated state, Smith gauged the situation.

He was well aware that he didn’t possess a trustworthy face. If anything, he had the profile of a criminal. So, before he heard Smith grudgingly bite out, “Okay, fine,” Severus was mentally running a few scenarios of persuading the man, either verbally or magically.

“Follow me, then.”

He felt a mixture of relief and disdainful shock that this man would trust a perfect stranger without solid evidence concerning his motives.

Severus followed him out of the pub.

~*~

The man led him away from the crowded pub and the town square into a secluded alley not too far from the main road.

Severus turned to face him and stilled.

Under the dim light of the pub the man's eyes had looked dark, almost hazel, but now, under the almost garish street light – Severus discovered with a gasp – the eyes were green. The exact shade of green as Lily's. His insides flipped.

The man turned around and crossed his arms over his chest, regarding him warily. “So?”

"First, what I am about to say may sound ludicrous, but you must hear me out," said Severus.

Smith nodded.

“You are a wizard, Mr. Smith,” he said. “As am I.”

The man blinked. “What?” he said shortly.

“Yes, it sounds ridiculous, but let me show you.”

He pulled out his wand and cast a nonverbal Lumos, and watched the man’s eyes widen with wonder before narrowing in suspicion.

“You could have hidden a mini torch in that stick for all I know.”

Severus sighed. “Wingardium Leviosa. ”

A discarded plastic bottle floated in midair.

“What–?” the man gasped, and reached out with his hand, feeling around the air to make sure there was no trickery.

“I saw your accidental magic back at the pub.”

The man opened his mouth in protest, but Severus cut him off. “I know what I saw. There is a whole world of us – separate from this world – with our own government, a culture, an education system,” said Severus.

Smith looked gobsmacked, staring back and forth between Severus and his wand.

“Mr. Smith, it is imperative that you believe me. Usually, when children with magical abilities reach eleven or so, they are sent a letter from a school of magic in their region. You should have received one.”

“I didn’t. I was in France at that time.”

“Ah. Then that explains the absence of the post.”

Severus refrained from telling him about Beauxbatons. He could not have the man prefer to attend Beauxbatons instead of Hogwarts.

Despite his shock, what looked like understanding was slowly washing over the young man’s face.

"No one explained to me what was going on all those times… why I appeared suddenly on the roof, why I almost made…” he trailed off. “No one told me what I was. I was so scared that I was the only one with this, this freakish power. I was terrified people would find out about what was different about me and take me away."

"Take you away where?"

"I don't know… Someplace where they do government experiments."

Severus eyed him in disbelief.

The man flushed. "I was nine, okay? And few kids were reading comics about that sort of thing."

He snorted.

After a pause, Smith let out a shuddering sigh as he ran a hand over his disheveled hair. “Oh my god. Whoa,” he breathed.

“It is understandable to feel overwhelmed.”

“Yeah, this is… this is not how I imagined my night going.” He let out a breathless chuckle.

Severus hesitated. Should he reveal this information? Well, of course he should. From what he had gathered about the man, he was starved for stability, for some place to belong, for a family.

“I knew your parents.”

His head snapped up.

“What?” he breathed, his eyes impossibly wide.

“I went to school with them, Lily Evans and James Potter.”

“I… uhm… are you sure? ”

“Quite sure. You are a dead ringer for James Potter. Except your eyes,” he said. He swallowed. “You have your mother’s eyes.”

The man ruffled his hair again, staring up at the sky and then down at the ground.

“Are… are they alive?” asked the man, his voice barely a whisper.

Something clenched in his heart as he saw the green eyes fill with both tentative hope and dread.

“No. They died on the night you went missing. But your aunt is still alive.”

“I have an aunt?” His eyes lit up.

Whatever mollycoddling image of Petunia he was imagining, he was abysmally wrong. Severus very much doubted that Petunia would welcome the presence of a ‘freak’ nephew with open arms.

“Okay, I don’t want to get my hopes up too soon. Are you… are you really sure? That I’m who you think I am?”

“I cannot prove your parentage right now. I may even be mistaken, though I very much doubt it. Anyone who knew James Potter would take one look at you and claim you as his son,” he said, hiding a sneer at the memory of James Potter. “If I am mistaken, and it is most unlikely, the fact still remains that you are a wizard, Mr. Smith. You could attend a school of magic.”

It appeared Smith did not care much for such an education.

“You said I went missing the night they…” he trailed off. “What happened?”

There was that odd look again.

“There,” he paused, wondering how much of the truth he should reveal. Severus doubted it would encourage the man to follow him if he revealed that there was a megalomaniac who would be intent on killing him if he knew he had failed to do so in his infancy. “There was an attack. An invader in your home when you were very young. Your parents died trying to fend off the intruder.”

“Oh.”

“Your home was nearly destroyed and they never found your body, so people assumed you were also deceased.”

“Was he – the invader – was he caught?”

How to answer… The Dark Lord had met his demise that night. So he hadn’t been caught, per se. But he had been resurrected, and, in any case, there was no cell in Azkaban that could hold him.

“No,” said Severus, shaking his head. “He is at large.”

“Oh.” The man pursed his lips.

Smith took a few steps back and leaned against the wall. “This is… I don’t know how much of that to believe.”

“Yes, I decided the moment I met you in the pub that I would weave an elaborate web of unsettling lies about your infancy that I might spirit you away to Britain to make you mark my students’ grammatically challenged essays.” He paused. “That does sound more convincing, doesn’t it?”

Smith snorted. “Come on, if you were me, would you believe a stranger you just met at a pub in Carcassonne who told you that he knew your parents and that you’re a wizard?”

Severus would simply tip Veritaserum down one’s throat to ascertain the truth.

“Fair enough,” he conceded. “But as I said, it does not change the fact that you are a wizard. And you know it.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, dazed.

Severus tucked away his wand. “I will be leaving for Britain tomorrow at noon. If you wish to accompany me and travel to Britain to attend its school of magic, or meet your relative, or both, you are welcome.”

He looked contemplative. “I’ll think about it.”

~*~

As he headed to the pub from the night before, Severus was fairly sure the man would make his appearance. He had had a lonely childhood, drifting through the world, longing for a familial connection and support. But he did have an inkling of doubt.

Nevertheless, if he didn’t show up, then he was prepared to offer to pay his tuition, or even his debts, to secure his return to Britain. And if the man refused altogether… Well, he would stun and carry him to Hogwarts if he had to.

The minutes ticked by. Had he misjudged the young man?

Relief welled up in his chest when he saw the man slowly make his way towards him, wearing a worn-out rucksack slung over his shoulders and dragging a small and ragged black suitcase.

Smith was wearing jeans and a tight black t-shirt. The lines of his garments framed his body, sleek and youthful.

He looked very much like a Muggle.

“So…” said the man, looking around expectantly.

Severus arched his eyebrow.

“Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“You must have used some kind of magical transport to get here in the first place.”

“I did, but we are walking to our destination.” He prepared himself to strike down the protests that would surely follow. He was confident, not only in his ability to lie convincingly, but also in the young man’s gullible, too-trusting nature.

“What?” he exclaimed. “Why can’t we teleport or fly there or whatever you did to come here?”

“I used a Portkey. It is used in cases of long-distance travel–”

“Like right now.”

“–but unfortunately you are not a registered wizard, and Portkeys transport only the number of people registered for each Portkey – and this,” Severus dug through his pocket and pulled out a bottle cap, “allows only one person. One registered wizard. ”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.”

The man shifted his feet. “So how are we getting there? There’s a body of water on the way, in case you’ve forgotten what the map looks like.”

“I believe Muggles – non-magical people – have invented a way to cross rivers and oceans: it’s called a ferry.”

The man scowled. “I know what a ferry is.”

“Oh good. I was worried that being introduced to the Wizarding world made you forget all things Muggle.”

He rolled his eyes. “Okay, so we’ll rent a car.”

Severus was prepared for this highly logical line of reasoning. He just hoped that Smith was as gullible as he seemed.

“A car. I believe it’s a Muggle invention to drive long distances. It’s a four-wheeled vehicle,” said the man, motioning the wheel.

The sheer cheek of him.

“I am aware of what a car is,” said Severus.

“Oh good. I don’t know how ignorant you are about Muggle stuff.”

Severus shot him a glare, and the man responded with a cheeky smile.

“I’m sure you hadn’t planned on making us travel on foot all the way. Lucky for you, I have a driver’s license.”

“Unfortunately for you, driving is out of the question,” he lied again.

“What? Why?” the man whined.

“I have severe motion sickness and my magic goes haywire. I am sure you do not want my half-digested meals decorating your lap, or my magic lashing out at you.” Diluting lies with the truth always made them more believable.

The man’s shoulders slumped. Severus could see the wheels turning in his mind.

“Oh! Planes!” he exclaimed. He eyed Severus suspiciously. “Planes are–”

“I am quite well-versed in Muggle transportation, Mr. Smith,” he interjected. “But I’m afraid aeroplanes are also not a viable option.”

“Why? Are you allergic to being high up in the air?” he asked, clearly losing his patience. “Christ, you wizards are so obtuse and stubborn. Really fond of your magic, aren’t you?”

“No, I simply lack the necessary Muggle documentation.”

“Oh my god, you are so shady.” The man didn’t just dress like a Muggle, he talked like one, too. “And how are you going to get a ferry if you don’t have any Muggle ID?”

“Ferries do not have as stringent regulations on personal identification as do aeroplanes.”

He crossed his arms. “So what do you suggest, then?”

“What I told you in the very beginning: we walk.”

“That is going to take ages. ”

Be grateful that I’m placing myself in this misery for a brat like you, Severus bit back the retort. It wouldn’t do to alienate the boy when he was still willing to accompany him of his own volition…

“Yes, so I suggest we make every step and minute count.”

He turned and started walking.

Severus could hear the man shuffling and dragging his suitcase along.

“Can’t you just message your fellow wizards and witches in England to send another teleport key?” he called behind him.

“Portkey,” Severus corrected. “And I’m afraid that is not possible. International travel is highly regulated these days, and it is unlikely that they will let you use a Portkey while you remain unregistered.”

He heard the man mutter, “Great.”

Smith caught up to him after a moment, his chest huffing with breath. “How come I’m dragging these bloody suitcases and you just have a satchel?”

“It is hardly my fault that you decided to pack so many things.”

“Well, good thing I did, since we’ll be walking the whole way.” He eyed the satchel suspiciously. “How are you going to survive with whatever is in that tiny satchel?”

“Magic, Mr. Po– Smith.”

Severus had a hard time not automatically calling the man Potter when he so obviously looked like one.

“Hey, might as well start calling me Harry or Potter, since that’s who I am now, apparently,” he said. “Maybe not Harry, actually. That’s someone else’s name,” he said after a moment. “And not Potter either, come to think of it. Not until we’re a hundred percent sure.”

Severus was in the process of tuning out the man’s babbling when he heard him ask, “So, do you want me to call you Snape or Severus?”

He missed a beat while walking, but quickly regained his balance.

Smith looked like an identical twin to James Potter. Well, perhaps not identical, because of the green eyes, but he still had the swagger of a man who was aware of his attractiveness.

No, he would not let the man call him Severus; that was a privilege he had granted only a select few.

“Snape,” he said curtly.

“Okay. Do you know how to get there?"

“Yes.”

Severus had spent hours the night before pouring himself into planning the route, with several maps spread out around him. It was best to avoid the main Muggle roads. It would not do well to draw attention of Muggles (to say nothing of Snatchers).

Still, they would have to stop by a few towns on the way to stock up on food and other supplies. Cities were absolutely out of the question, in case they should happen upon British wizards or witches spending the holidays abroad. One could never be too careful. Severus knew that his penchant for caution bordered on the neurotic, but it had kept him alive all these years, and he would be loath to abandon it now, as he made his way toward a Death Eater-infested Britain with a Harry Potter lookalike in tow.

Yes, although the man would be sure to pitch a fit, they would camp. He had the equipment they needed in his satchel.

Granted, they could simply Apparate over short distances, and that would take them less than a week to reach Britain. But he remembered Dumbledore’s specific instructions if he were to find the boy: do whatever’s necessary to delay, to buy time to train him before reaching Hogwarts, to take advantage of being off the grid and away from the press.

Convincing him they had to walk was the most appropriate option.

“Please tell me you can magically shrink these, or at least make them lighter,” he panted as he dragged the suitcase along.

“There is a spell for that.”

“Well, would you kindly cast it?” he asked airily.

Impertinent brat.

He cast the Shrinking Charm as well as the Feather-Light Charm.

“Oh my god, you’ve got to teach me that,” he groaned in relief, and, after a beat, he blanched. His carefree air of anticipation dissipated and turned into a solemn one.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, noting the peculiar reaction.

“Nothing.” He gave him a weak smile.

“Perhaps we can stop by on the way to procure you a wand. Ollivander’s has the finest selection of wands, but I’m sure other shops in France will be satisfactory.”

“Right,” Smith mumbled, staring at the ground.

~*~

They walked. And Severus found out Smith wasn’t one for quietly taking in the scenery.

“Do you have a quota on the number of spells you can cast in a day?”

“No, magic is not a finite well from which one can only draw water a fixed number of times per day.”

“Wicked. What other sorts of things can you do with magic?”

Green eyes sparkled with curiosity and excitement as they gazed up at him.

“You are asking the very question that has been driving philosophical, technological and academic spheres of the wizarding world ever since the conception of magic.”

“And when is that?”

“That question is also under heated debate.”

“What’s your best guess?”

Severus paused to think. “The earliest documents of sorcery date back to ancient Egypt. Spell works must have been vastly different based on the illustrations and records, but magic nonetheless. However, if you were to ask along the lines of human evolution if some humans gained magical power or if there is a separate lineage, I am in the dark.”

The presence of Muggle-borns was still a popular topic of research, as well as Squibs, and there was still no conclusive theory on the origin of magic, and how some were born with it and others not.

“Are the things we imagine about witches and wizards true?”

“Some of them are unfounded misconceptions,” he said. “However, we do fly on brooms.”

“Really? I thought with all that magic, you’d have invented a more comfortable method,” said Smith. “We can fly too, and our method doesn’t involve uncomfortable crotch pain. Science!” He puffed in pride.

“We can Apparate: instant teleportation without prolonged hours in claustrophobic spaces with dozens of people,” Severus countered with a smirk.

“Okay, that’s pretty neat,” he conceded, but with a smile.

“There’s a sport called Quidditch that is played on broomsticks. Your father played on his House team when he was at school,” Severus added.

It was obvious that Smith was accompanying him because he offered a connection to his parents, his roots, his place in the world. Well, he would keep the man interested; it would be unfortunate if he decided the journey was too much effort and Severus had to resort to magic to get him to Hogwarts in defiance of Dumbledore’s orders.

“Magic schools have Houses?”

“I cannot speak for all the foreign schools, but Hogwarts has. When you arrive as a first year, the Sorting Hat places you into one of four Houses based on your traits.

“The hotheaded idiots who jump into the fray without thinking and call it bravery are sorted into Gryffindor; the hermits who’d rather spend time with books than people into Ravenclaw; the ambitious and cunning, those loyal to what they believe in, into Slytherin; and whoever is left over winds up in Hufflepuff.”

“Well, I can tell which is your favorite, then.”

“My position as the Head of Slytherin is completely irrelevant to my impartial observation and judgment.”

Smith snorted.

“Were you in the same House as my dad?” he asked after a moment.

Severus’s mouth dropped open.

What an outrageous question.

“He was in Gryffindor. As was your mother.”

“Didn’t you just say Gryffindors are a bunch of idiots?”

“Yes. But there are always exceptions that prove the rule, like your mother. She was a force to be reckoned with. She had all the bravery lauded by Gryffindors, but more than that, she was as clever and gifted as a Ravenclaw and a Slytherin combined,” he said. “Your father, on the other hand, was not an exception.”

Severus had been surprised by the turnout this year. He had expected at least half of the students to be absent, especially the Muggle-borns and the Death Eaters' children, albeit for different reasons. The Muggle-borns that stayed because they retained a false sense of security within Hogwarts's stone walls were naïve fools. Of course, this wouldn’t stop him from doing his level best to protect them, but sometimes his Snakes surpassed his ability to keep up.

“So, I doubt you actually teach chemistry – though it’d be cool if you really did – what do you teach?”

“Potions.”

The man nodded encouragingly.

“It’s a delicate art of using different magical ingredients to concoct serums of various properties.”

“Ooh, like what?”

After Severus spent two hours explaining different potions ingredients, where some of the rarest of them could be found, how some required very specific instructions on harvesting, what kind of processes were involved in brewing – from the precise dicing of ingredients to the delicacy of clockwise and anticlockwise stirring, and how even the meagerest difference could drastically alter a potion’s property (which was barely scraping the surface) – he worked his way up from the generalities of the first year’s curriculum to the seventh’s.

While Severus lectured, the man listened with rapt attention and occasionally asked astute questions. Severus had to refrain many times from saying, “Ten points to Gryffindor.” From the limited time he had had to observe and interact with the man, Severus couldn’t imagine him being sorted anywhere but Gryffindor; Potter genes wouldn’t let him go anywhere else. But still, he would have made a fine pupil if he were at Hogwarts, if his clever and insightful remarks were anything to go by.

They continued to walk, barely stopping for a break.

As eager as they were on the first day of their journey, they had underestimated the heat and overestimated their physical capacity.

The heat was relentless. There was not a single cloud to offer respite from the glaring sun. Grains of sand crackled beneath their feet with each step. The noise assailed his tired senses.

Soon, Severus found himself sweating despite the Cooling Charm, and his arms and legs felt like lead.

Nonetheless, the man kept firing one question after the other, undeterred: “How does a hat place you in a House? Does it read your mind?”; “Are there magical creatures like unicorns?”; “Can you fix things with magic? What’s the limitation?”

Finally, his exhaustion caught up with him. “Are you usually this talkative during a journey?” Severus snapped.

The man’s face fell a bit. “Sorry. It’s just… it’s so hard to stop myself from asking all these questions. You just told me yesterday that there’s a whole other world out there that I could have been a part of,” he said, his face open and vulnerable. It was frightfully honest.

Oh.

Suddenly the man’s endless chatter and untempered excitement about the Wizarding world reminded him of his own childhood, when he had eagerly fielded Lily’s countless questions about Hogwarts and basked in her contagious excitement.

Severus swallowed. “I… apologise. I should have known.”

“Maybe I can cap it to three questions a day?” he asked uncertainly.

“No, you… you may ask as many questions you’d like.”

The man’s smile was blinding.

Severus found himself smiling back unwittingly, and caught himself.

“Perhaps we should rest now,” he said hastily.

~*~

Severus paced over to the side of the unpaved road without a word.

"Where are you going?!" Smith asked, alarmed.

"Call of nature, Mr. Smith," he replied dryly.

The man flushed.

"Oh. Well," he shifted uncomfortably in his feet. "Then I might as well go, too."

He scurried away in the opposite direction.

Severus sighed. It was going to be a tiresome journey.

~*~

Darkness descended around them.

"I can't believe this whole tent was in that tiny bag. And the food. And the candles," Smith breathed in wonder as he lay on the hard ground.

"Couldn't you pack a nice, fluffy pillow with all that?" he grumbled. "I don't know if seeing you magic that rock into a pillow messed it up for me to believe this is really a fluffy pillow, or if this is actually not at all comfortable."

Severus inwardly groaned in horror at the man’s dreadful diction.

"Transfiguration is not my forte."

"How did you fit everything in there? I mean, yeah, magic. But how is everything organised in there? And your arm would have to be at least three feet long to reach down to get stuff at the bottom."

The dim candlelight flickered, as did Severus’s will to endure the man’s chatter when his eyes were so intent on drooping shut from exhaustion. He had dutifully answered questions all day, for pity’s sake!

“Mr. Smith, while I applaud your curiosity, we’ve been walking for more than six hours in the baking heat, and tomorrow bears the promise of the same, so, if you wouldn’t mind, button it and go to sleep!”

That earned him a sour look, but, surprisingly, Smith didn’t bother snapping back at him in irritation. The man merely nodded, as if he were accustomed to such harsh words and treatment, and turned to face the other way.

Severus shrugged it off. He had no interest in learning about the man’s life more than was necessary. He didn’t care about anything that didn’t help either to support or deny Dumbledore’s theory that he was the missing Harry Potter.

Smith was a key to his freedom and nothing more.

Severus absently rubbed the inside of his right arm.

To the left, the Dark Mark. To the right, Dumbledore’s oath.

He was a man who appreciated balance and symmetry, just like any other Potions master, but for once, he wished things were different.

~*~

Severus awoke at exactly seven o’clock from years of habit. And also from the infernal noise of birds’ too-merry chirping.

He quickly dressed himself, and moved to wake the man.

Severus thought his hair couldn’t get any worse, but his bed hair was even more atrocious. His mouth was slightly agape, jaw slack, and he was lightly snoring.

Severus narrowed his eyes. There was a peculiar shaped scar on his forehead. One could say it looked like an oversimplified rendition of a lightning bolt.

The longer he stared down at the man, the more he seemed to resemble James Potter, especially with his eyes closed.

He clamped down on his arm and roughly shook him awake.

The man awoke with a jolt.

"Whazzat–?"

"Get up," he ordered. "We shall have a quick breakfast and set out."

~*~

His ankles ached and his heels throbbed. They had been walking for two hours nonstop. It was a punishingly slow pace. At this rate, they wouldn’t reach Hogwarts within two months.

Purchasing a bicycle seemed like a tempting idea. It would be slower than a vehicle, so it wasn’t out of the question, but the path they were traveling was unpaved, to say the least, and unfit for such a method. Plus, he had no desire to make a fool of himself in front of Smith while learning how to pilot the crude vehicle.

As they walked, scenery blended together as the stretch of fields repeated itself, only with variations in shades of green. The only relief to the monotonous view came in the form of the potions ingredients that occasionally peppered the landscape.

He pointed out different plants to Smith, telling him their names and uses, and how they were prepared differently depending on the purpose of the potion. Sometimes he took time to collect a particularly rare or useful specimen.

“Dried nettles can be used to brew Swelling Solution.”

“What does it do?”

“Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you that the name is quite self-explanatory?” Severus sighed. “It causes enlargement on contact.”

Smith sniggered.

Oh for heaven’s sake. Severus rolled his eyes. Immature teenagers and their filthy minds.

~*~

“Tell me about my parents?”

Finally.

Severus knew the man desperately wanted to ask after them, but had held the question in as long as he could. The sheer magnitude of that request was visible to Severus. The man looked more nervous than ever before.

“What about them?”

The man ran a frantic hand over his hair. “Oh I don’t know. I don’t even know where to start. Anything,” he said. “Everything,” he murmured quietly.

Severus opened his mouth and fell silent. He did not know how or where to start. How was he supposed to convey the warmth of the friendship Lily had given him, which it had turned out he never deserved? The afternoons spent lying down in the grass under the willow tree with Lily beside him, chattering excitedly about magic and Hogwarts… Their quiet study sessions, with only the sound of quills scratching parchment and their quiet smiles after they finished a particularly challenging assignment. How could he tell this man about his mother without exposing the sheer amount of regret and guilt that saturated his memories of her?

And where did he even start with the boy’s father? He had little to tell other than tales of torment and mutual hatred, of lashing out with words and fists and magic, of the pure loathing that still made his blood boil even after two decades.

But they had all the time in the world, or so it seemed with this endless walking.

It was like trying to untangle a colossal knot: it was difficult to know which end, if pulled, would tighten or loosen.

Severus decided it was best to start from the beginning.

He told Smith of his childhood, of how he’d met Lily and forged a friendship that had extended to Hogwarts, despite them being sorted into different Houses – until the difference grew like a deep chasm. Lily had not been to blame.

Severus mentally debated whether or not he should tell Smith of his worst memory. He scoffed. He had no qualms about discussing James Potter at his worst, even if it was his worst also.

He told him of what had transpired among Potter and his cohorts and himself, of Lily’s intervention, and his disgusting reaction to her kindness. He told him of how he’d begged for her forgiveness for days, and of her firm rejection.

"Do you… do you still hate her?"

Severus shook his head. "I resented her at the time. But in retrospect, I am glad she had the courage to end our friendship. My attitude and values at that time were misguided, to say the least, and strained our friendship.”

"I'm sorry my dad was such a git." He looked utterly miserable.

“The hatred was mutual, I assure you. I was not the defenseless victim and he the bully. We antagonised each other, and yes, he often had the upper hand, with his throng of fans and friends, but rest assured that I did not gamely take it all without retaliating.”

They walked in silence.

“Were you at their wedding?”

“I was not invited.”

“Oh.”

“He made his best friend your godfather.”

Smith perked up like an eager puppy. How fitting. “I have a godfather?”

Severus sneered in distaste at the thought of Black. After discovering the Potters’ death, the mongrel had figured out their trusted friend had betrayed them, and went on a rampage to find the traitor. Sirius Black had been arrested on the spot for blowing up the street and murdering Peter Pettigrew and at least a dozen Muggles. But much to his dismay, Priori Incantatem and Veritaserum had proved his innocence, and Black was set free while Pettigrew went on the run as a rat.

The last he’d heard of the mutt’s whereabouts was a month ago: he and his pet werewolf were sent as envoys to dissuade werewolves from joining the Dark Lord. He doubted it was going marvellously, with Black as a representative.

How would Black and Lupin react to the news?

Severus glanced at the man.

He was undoubtedly a Potter, and Black would surely leap at the chance of having his best friend back, would surely treat Smith like a reincarnated James Potter.

The thought alone left a bad taste in his mouth.

~*~

Their typical day consisted of eating breakfast, dismantling the tent, walking, Severus pointing out useful plants, walking, stopping for lunch, walking, stopping for a break, setting up the tent after sunset, having dinner, conversing in the dark, and, finally, long-awaited sleeping.

Before long they both agreed that they were heartily sick of corned beef sandwiches and other variations of meat and bread, and also of their barely maintained hygiene.

Road-weary as they were, they easily agreed to spend the night at the next inn they passed. They would have found refuge sooner, Smith continually reminded Severus, if he hadn’t stopped to collect Baneberries.

“I can’t believe you spent an hour picking berries. That are not even edible!” Smith complained as they finally stepped into a small country inn.

“This may come as a shock to you, but not everything revolves around one’s stomach,” he replied dryly.

“Says the person who was grumpy as hell this morning when we ran out of chocolate,” Smith shot back.

“They were not plain berries.” Severus ignored the man’s remark. “Boom berries and Baneberries are quite hard to find in the wild. Most of the stocks available for purchase come from greenhouses.”

“Okay, okay.” Smith rolled his eyes, exasperated, but gave him a helpless smile. “Remind me why I’m putting up with you?”

“Because you’d get lost and die from sheer stupidity.”

Which was an undeniable truth, the past days had proved.

Consumed with his hunger and determination to not to eat any more sandwiches, Smith had been bent on finding some edible mushroom. He’d held up a white mushroom, asking if they could eat it for lunch, only to have Severus quickly wrench it away from his hand with a flick of his wand. Trust Smith to pick out a deadly fungus, Amanita virosa, commonly referred to as the European Destroying Angel.

Smith turned to the counter. “Un nuit, sil-vous-plaït.”

The innkeeper’s bored eyes swept over them. “Vous voulez seulement un lit, bien sur?” he said flatly.

Smith’s face flushed pink. “Mais, non… on n’est pas un couple…”

The innkeeper arched a disbelieving eyebrow. “Comme vous voulez,” he said nonchalantly, and handed Smith the key.

“Was there a problem?” Severus inquired.

“No, nothing. It’s sorted,” Smith replied, waving his hand dismissively.

Awkward silence followed them into their room, and Smith muttered, “Mind if I take a bath first?” before fleeing into the toilet.

As Severus organised the insides of his bottomless satchel, there was a loud moan from the adjacent room.

He froze.

“The bath is satisfactory, I presume?” he managed to call out.

Another appreciative moan. “Ughh, yes. Two weeks without a proper wash or warm water to loosen up my joints from all that walking… This is wonderful. Mhmm.”

The man’s moaning was decidedly indecent. Severus scowled and shook his head as he tried to dispel the mental image of Smith, naked in a bathtub, lazily splayed out, his cheeks flushed.

After Smith had finished in the loo, he stepped in. The air was stifling with humidity, and a damp towel hung on the hanger. Severus tried not to imagine the skin the towel had caressed just moments ago. Thankfully, there were fresh towels for him to use.

He turned the valve and swallowed a groan that threatened to escape when warm water washed away the weeks of exhaustion. He savored the unique scent of hot water, as well as its fluidity as it ran down his body. All the clutters of thoughts and worries quieted and merged with the sound of running water.

Severus stood in the shower for a long time.

~*~

Severus could feel his eyes on him while he undressed. He refused to fumble under the man’s gaze.

“How on earth are you not dying under all that clothing in this weather?”

Severus smirked. “There’s a spell for that: a Cooling Charm.”

“People usually just switch into t-shirts and shorts.”

He had no desire to bear his sallow, scrawny legs in front of a nineteen-year-old with a flawlessly toned body. Or reveal his Dark Mark.

“You know what I think?” said the man, flopping on the bed. He sighed contently and sank further into the mattress. “I think you just like billowing in your dark robes, looking all mysterious and charismatic.”

He whirled around, indignant, his robes billowing.

The man smirked. “See? See?”

Severus snorted in spite of himself.

~*~

After a day’s rest and a trip to the market to stock up on food (Smith still looked doubtfully at Severus’s magically extended satchel, asking “Are you sure the food is not gonna go bad?” as if they hadn’t spent the last two weeks eating from this very bag) they set out again.

~*~

Severus started getting better at reading Smith. The man was an open book anyway, but he began to notice that his mouth took on a particular tightness when he was being a fool and, instead of suggesting they take a break, forcing himself to drag his aching feet.

He began to notice the quiet smile that danced on Smith's lips when he thought Severus wasn't looking.

Severus was unsure what to make of it. It took him a while to realise that the man wasn’t patronising him, but instead was being playful and… content.

~*~

At night when they settled themselves in the tent, Smith would ask after his memories of Lily. Severus could see he also wanted to hear stories of his father, but refrained from asking after reading between the lines. Not that Severus was subtle when it came to his opinion of the elder Potter.

“Did you love her?”

“Who?” Severus asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“My… my mum,” he said with difficulty, as if he hadn’t gotten used to it yet.

Severus stared into the dark. He had often considered the same question ever since puberty, ever since his dorm mates had begun prattling on about the girls they fancied.

He had been confused by his possessiveness of her friendship. He had wanted to monopolise her friendship and time, but there was never… desire. Affection, and perhaps greed, certainly, because he was a greedy, selfish man, but he did not love her romantically. No, what he felt for Lily had never been as fickle and lustful as romance. Severus wondered if he would ever come to find another person who made him feel that way – what he would dare describe as love.

“She was a good friend when we were young,” he said, finally, by way of an answer. And I was not.

~*~

“You didn't have to be so rude.”

Severus ignored him. Smith had been sulky since Severus had suggested to the cashier who’d sold them their groceries that she might be able to do her job at an adequate pace if she weren’t so preoccupied with protecting her preposterous fingernails; they had been about an inch long and a ghastly shade of green, and Severus hadn’t thought twice about pointing out that they were both impractical and inappropriate for the workplace.

“It doesn't hurt to be nice, you know.”

“I see no point in observing insincere niceties.”

“Okay, maybe not nice, but polite, at least.”

“Superficial, meaningless gestures,” he sneered. “I do not owe these people smiles and inane compliments and empty gratitude. Do not try to force me to do so just so that others will feel comfortable.”

“Yeah, but not bothering to smile is different from being actually rude.”

“Truth is harsh. Sometimes straightforwardness is a relief from all the pressure of obligatory social graces. Do you never tire of feigned smiles and polite gestures?”

“Well, sometimes, but–”

“Why do you force yourself to be nice–”

“I’m not forcing myself. If anything, I have to force myself to be rude,” he said. “I'm nice and polite to people because being rude won't get you anywhere.”

“Oh, you'd be surprised.”

Smith shot him an exasperated look. “It's sort of like, I'm nice to you, so will you be nice to me in return?”

“That is quite frankly a pathetic defense mechanism. And foolishly relying on everyone to have the same naïvete as you do.”

“Yeah, it's not exactly foolproof. I've spent enough time as a server to realise that.

“But at the same time, it doesn't hurt to be nice, or caring, or civil, even. I appreciate it when someone's nice to me. And I sort of expect – and hope – others will be kind to me if I show them the same courtesy. I don't expect rudeness to be repaid with kindness.”

“Sometimes it does not matter at all. Human nature and interaction are not entirely based on principles of reciprocity. People will treat you well if they need something from you.”

“I haven't seen you being all nice about it when you tell me to do the cooking or the washing up,” Smith grumbled.

“That is because I know that you are too agreeable to refuse when you know full well it is your turn.”

The corner of his lips quirked.

"No one would describe you as ‘nice’, but you've been surprisingly decent to me, considering I'm the son of your arch nemesis."

"Yes, but you are not a Potter."

Smith seemed to consider that for a moment.

~*~

In his dreams, Severus was often plagued by the memories of that night.

It had been like any other Death Eater meeting: Death Eaters reporting on their raids, the Dark Lord hissing out orders and strategies.

Until Amycus Carrow stumbled in.

Amycus Carrow had always been an immutable drunkard. He practically lived in a pub. It was his home away from home.

He did manage to make occasional appearances to the meetings if he wasn’t passed out under a table somewhere. The stench of stale beer always clung to him like a second cloak. That day was no different: his dark hair hung limply and his eyes were blurry and intoxicated.

But there was a deranged look on his face. He looked to be straddling the far edge of insanity.

They had all been eager to prove themselves and impress the Dark Lord, but Amycus, who lived in the shadow of his much cleverer sister, Alecto, especially so.

Be that as it may, his bravado was diminished with each pint he downed until Alecto dragged him home from the pub.

His pub haunting had finally, and unexpectedly, paid dividends when Dumbledore had been foolish enough not to cast protective wards against potential eavesdroppers. He couldn't blame him, however. Sybill Trelawney was no more than a fraud trying to parlay the fame of her great-great-grandmother into a career, or so they had all thought. Who knew a simple job interview would turn into the most significant moment in recent history?

"My Lord," Amycus rasped. He let out a huff of laughter. He looked so triumphant, ready to reveal the wild card he had acquired by sheer luck.

Severus thought he could smell liquor from where he was standing; a smell made worse by at least several weeks of neglecting simple hygiene. Amycus's hair shone with a garish light from all of the accumulated oil. Pot and kettle? Perhaps, but Severus's own greasy hair was the result of potions fumes and his frequent use of protective potions that prevented his hair from being swallowed up in a flame, not from failing to wash.

"I come with most gracious bearing, my lord."

"Is it happy hour at The Three Broomsticks?" Avery sneered.

Amycus shot him a burning glare, and turned to the Dark Lord once again with an eager look. "My Lord, there's been a prophecy. I overheard the Muggle-lover Dumbledore interviewing Sybill Trelawney–"

"Sybill Trelawney? She's as cracked as a cheap cauldron! You shouldn’t take her inane babbling for a real prophecy, ” Lestrange hissed in distaste.

Amycus was flustered. "No, no! I heard it and it was genuine! Her face shifted and her voice changed! And the look on Dumbledore's face – he took it seriously!"

"The old coot considers seriously even the worthless babbling of his half-breed oaf."

"Were you even sober when you overheard this? How do we know you weren't just imagining things?" asked Rookwood.

"Amycus may like a drink, but he wasn't hallucinating," his sister insisted in his defence.

"Remember that time he rambled about dancing with a Veela?" Avery sniggered.

Lestrange snorted with laughter. "He said he got married to one, aye. And the next day he found out he’d freed his house-elf instead!"

Amycus growled in frustration. "No, no! I was sober enough to realise what the prophecy meant! I came here as soon as I heard it!"

"And you remember the exact words?" the Dark Lord asked, but he sounded unconvinced.

"Yes! I– "

"You don't even remember your own name when you're pissed." Rookwood jeered, joined in his laughter by other Death Eaters, none bothering to be discreet.

"I do remember!" Amycus roared. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…”

Everyone fell silent.

Face pale, Amycus swallowed nervously, his eyes darting away.

The Dark Lord leaned forward with gleaming red eyes.

"Interesting."

His eyes held the promise of a fate worse than death.

At that time, Severus spared a regretful thought for the family whose child the prophecy concerned, and sheltered a tentative hope that the child would indeed vanquish the Dark Lord. He was growing jaded from Death Eater raids and their meaningless violence. Jaded and tormented. With every razed home and tortured Muggle and decimated family, Severus felt his sanity, his conscience, slipping away, the existence of which had only been theoretical before.

When he had heard in passing the expected delivery date of Lily's child, Severus could not keep silent. Could not stop himself from going to Dumbledore to warn him, to warn the Potters. Estranged as they were, Severus could not simply deny or ignore the danger Lily was in. He owed her a long overdue apology, and he could not let her die by the hand of a master to whom his allegiance had been so foolishly given.

He could not.

Yet, despite his efforts, his change of heart, his defection, the whole ordeal had resulted in his allegiance sworn to another master – a more benevolent one, perhaps, but a master nonetheless.

And Lily’s death went unaltered.

Severus rubbed his right arm, feeling still, after all the years that had passed, the phantom sensation of that day's magic, the searing pain of the oath burning into his skin, his veins, his soul.

He cast a cursory glance at the man’s sleeping form. Smith could free him from both sets of chains if the prophecy was true.

His stomach dropped. If the prophecy was true, and certainly the prognostications of many others had come to pass, how was the man supposed to vanquish the Dark Lord? What was the ‘power’? How was this man, who lived as a Muggle for nineteen years, going to face the most formidable dark wizard of their age?

He needed more time.

He couldn’t reveal just yet the significance of the man’s role in this war. He could not place that burden on him now.

He needed to be prepared. The prophecy seemed to ensure the man’s victory, but one never did wrong by preparing for the worst.

~*~

“If my memory serves me correctly, there is a wizarding village nearby. We can purchase a wand for you there,” he said the next day.

Smith stopped dead, looking panicked.

“Uhm… I know you said I’m a wizard, like you, but do I have to… do magic?”

“What do you mean?” he drawled.

The man looked away, shifting his feet. “It’s just… bad things happen when I… when I lose control and do weird stuff.”

“Having a wand will stabilise your magical core and prevent you from wreaking havoc, if that is your worry.”

Smith still seemed uncertain. No, terrified.

“Isn’t knowing that I’m a wizard enough? I got by just fine for the past nineteen years without it. Sort of.”

Severus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You need to learn to defend yourself. Against magic, Mr. Smith.”

There was no guarantee their road to Hogwarts would be free of Snatchers and Death Eaters, or worse, Dementors. He was a fairly skilled duelist, but he would take no chances.

Smith swallowed with difficulty, his expression closed off.

“I don’t want to do magic, Snape,” he said quietly.

Severus blinked.

The sincerity of the remark was so jarring that he could only wordlessly stare at him. Any Muggle-born who discovered magic was so eager – sometimes, too eager – to test their newfound ability, to explore the new world: one notable example being Hermione Granger. Her natural brilliance and sharp mind were fueled by relentless curiosity towards things that purebloods and many half-bloods took for granted.

Yet, here was Smith, after a much belated revelation regarding his identity and magic, still reluctant – no, outright refusing – to do magic.

Had something happened in the past that warranted such reaction to magic?

~*~

Severus needed to get to the core of this aversion to magic before they reached the town. But as he asked after the man’s upbringing to find clues, he quickly found himself asking after other things, like his passions, interests, and his life in general.

Smith stared at him oddly. “I thought you weren’t interested in my life beyond my parentage.”

Severus scowled.

Of course, this was Harry Potter he was talking to, regardless of what he preferred to be called. There was no point in finding out what brought him joy or sadness, what his friends were like, what he liked to do to pass the time, what he valued; the only thing that mattered was he was a Potter and needed to free Severus and the rest of the wizarding world from the clutches of a madman.

~*~

Before they made their way into the town, Severus cast elaborate Glamour Charms on both of them.

Not one wizarding town is like another, but this place made even Severus’s harsh lines soften with the gentle hues of pastel colours in its houses and streets. Smith had already fallen in love with the place and vowed that once he retired he would come back here.

But as they neared the wand shop, Smith looked like he was walking to his death.

“Snape, I really don’t…”

Ignoring the tugging hand at his robe, he opened the door. A bell chimed as they stepped in.

“Bonjour!”

The wandmaker was an elderly woman with a hearty smile who looked to be somewhere in her fifties. She beckoned Severus in with an enthusiastic wave.

He heard Smith sigh in defeat and drag his feet.

After half an hour of trying out at least two thirds of the wands in the shop, with Severus’s patience thinning and the wandmaker muttering over and over, “Je ne comprends pas…” Smith finally found the right wand.

It was exactly how he had imagined it, and it mirrored his own experience of holding his own wand for the first time.

Smith’s eyes gleamed with wonder, his mouth agape in awe as if the sheer sight of it took his breath away. He gawked down at his wand, enthralled, and turned to face Severus, his eyes still awestruck.

Hawthorn, eleven inches, with a phoenix feather core.

As Severus paced over to the counter to pay, Smith jerked awake as if he was in a trance.

“No, no, no. You’re not going to pay for me,” he said in a hurry.

“No, let me,” Severus said. “I did insist on you obtaining a wand when you were so fervently against it.”

Smith gulped, and stared down at his wand with a mixture of horror, dread, and morbid fascination.

“Okay,” he whispered.

~*~

They walked and walked more.

“Now that you have your own wand, we shall practice every day on our way.”

“Do I have to?” There was trepidation in his voice.

“What do you plan to do with the wand, then? Use it for kindling?”

He rolled his eyes. “I would if I thought it would make a big enough fire to warm us right now,” said Smith, shivering. It had rained the night that they had stayed at the inn, and the rain dampened the fiery heat of the day. It was quite chilly.

Severus stopped in his tracks and turned to face the young man. “Take out your wand, Mr. Smith.”

“Which wand?” Smith asked with a tantalising smirk.

Cheeky brat.

At his thunderous expression, Smith smiled sheepishly. Then he let out a heavy sigh. “Fine.”

He rummaged through his pocket and took out his wand.

Having his wand in his hand, facing Smith, who awkwardly held his own in a loose grip, Severus felt his stomach drop.

Standing like this, face to face, with wands in hand, he found that unpleasant memories ripped forward in his mind. They were a harsh reminder of what kind of magic he had cast in his life, what he had done with his magic – carelessly wielding it without considering the consequences. Thinking he was invincible, protected by his power and the Dark Lord’s influence… his conscience and guilt tucked deep away where they were unreachable.

Severus wanted the man’s experience of purposeful magic to be exhilarating with potential and elation, without nightmares and torment and grimy tendrils of Dark Magic clinging onto his soul.

But could he do it?

How could a man tainted with the Dark Arts teach another of benevolent, harmless magic? What if his filthy magic bled into the man without Severus intending it?

Did he dare?

The Dark Lord was armed with years of experience with the most destructive kinds of magic. He did not – could not expect Smith to defeat the Dark Lord without at least knowing what magic could do when wielded by the merciless.

The man looked anxious, no, terrified, of the wand he was holding. And quite rightfully so.

Anyone could determine what kind of magic they would wield and choose to avoid walking down the path of Dark Arts. But that was a luxury Severus could not let the man have.

"Is this how you hold it?" The wand hung awkwardly from his hand.

"You must perceive the wand as the extension of your own arm. Just as any swordsman would tell you: a firm grip and acceptance of the wand as a part of your own body are crucial."

“Guh.” He hesitantly wrapped all his fingers and palm around the wand.

“Better,” Severus noted.

Severus demonstrated simple, harmless spells, such as Lumos and other quotidian charms.

Smith repeated after him in jerky movements, his wand frizzling like a failed attempt to light fireworks.

He sighed.

Perhaps not yet. Severus didn't want to ruin the man's first few memories of magic by marring them with terror and self-loathing.

~*~

They began incorporating magical practice sessions into their routine.

“You need to master your fears,” Severus said impatiently, as Smith only managed to produce smoke from his wand.

Smith pursed his lips. “Yeah, I know that.”

“Right now, you’re regarding magic as something foreign, some wild beast that you cannot tame.”

“Well, it is.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Severus firmly. “Your magic is part of you, has been part of you since you were born. Do not think of yourself and magic as separate entities.”

Smith took in a deep breath and let it out. He rolled his neck and shook off tension from his shoulders. “Alright. Let me try this again.”

He pursed his lips and furrowed his eyebrows in concentration, and carefully articulated each syllable of, “Wingardium Leviosa. ”

The wand movement and incantation were perfect. And yet, the pebble hovered only an inch or so from the ground before dropping down.

Marvellous.

A frustrated groan threatened to escape him. How was the man to vanquish the Dark Lord when he couldn’t even levitate a pebble?

“Are you sure I’m not a Muggle?”

“You did make it float for two seconds,” he gritted out.

“I think that’s it for the day, don’t you?” he said cheerfully, and tucked away his wand with a surprisingly eager face.

It was quite odd. There was something… off about Smith’s anxiety towards his wand and magic.

“No, we are not done yet.”

His shoulders slumped. Smith grudgingly retrieved his wand from his pocket.

Severus had years of experience dealing with thickheaded students who disregarded rules and instruction, and Smith was hardly his first challenge. After all, he’d seen Longbottom through his Potions O.W.L.

He demonstrated few spells for him to follow.

“How are you so sure about this?” Smith said, all the while staring down at his wand as if it was an untamable creature. “How do you know if the magic will do what you tell it?”

“I’d already had years of experience by the time you were born.”

Smith looked caught off guard.

“Oh, yeah. You’re around my parents’ age,” he said, a bit dazed.

“I am your parents’ age.”

Merlin, Smith was so young. If Severus had decided to procreate early enough, he could have had a son his age by now. The thought was oddly sickening.

“Incantation, wand movement, and intention,” said Severus. “Three elements to keep in mind.”

Smith sighed.

~*~

“The incantation is, Protego, ” Severus articulated carefully. “It is the most widely used defense spell. It can shield you from the majority of jinxes and hexes, as well as some curses.”

Smith nodded, mouthing, “Protego” under his breath.

“Try to cast the shield when I send a jinx.”

Severus hurled a Jelly-Legs Jinx at Smith, as he shouted, “Protego! ” and a shimmering wall of light appeared in front of him. It flickered precariously for a few seconds before vanishing and letting the jinx through.

It hit him square on his chest, and Smith yelped in surprise and keeled over, face flat.

“Nice spell work, Snape.” Smith, still splayed across his chest, lifted his hand and gave him a thumbs up.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake.”

At this rate, the wizarding world was doomed.

~*~

“I demand that we eat more fruit,” Smith declared as he accepted the offered sandwich with great dismay. “Nutritious diet. You know, balanced food groups and all.”

“I assure you, the sandwiches we have eaten so far contain most, if not all, of the nutrition we need for the day.”

Smith groaned. “I don’t mean to sound like an ungrateful brat, but if I have to eat another combination of bread, veg, cheese, and meat, I think I’d rather take my chances with the next random mushroom I find beneath a tree.”

Severus inwardly agreed. Not concerning the mushrooms of course (was Smith determined to do himself in?), but he too had grown sick of this dietary monotony.

Smith almost wept with pure joy when they found a town in which to shop the next day.

They made their way into the town, heading toward the street vendors, who offered up tantalising fresh fruits and vegetables.

Severus had to clutch the man’s arm to prevent him from shoving every single offering into his mouth. He was positively glowing with excitement and anticipation as he pointed out his favourite fruits to Severus, pleading, “Can we please get those?”

As they perused the stalls, Severus would bargain with the vendors, they would split the cost, and Smith would carry their purchases. The young man went on excitedly about how they would ration the fruits so that they would last until they came upon another market, how he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into the juicy flesh, how he could cut fruits into neat shapes and peel the skin off in one go without breaking it.

It was all very… domestic. And quite endearing, he had to admit to himself.

"Snape?" said a voice. Alarmed, Severus whirled around with his wand in hand.

It was Mundungus Fletcher.

His heart raced.

"What are you doing here?" he grunted.

He could ask the same thing.

Why on earth was he here of all places?! Fletcher was the last person he expected to see in this corner of the globe, so far from his usual haunts in Knockturn Alley. Was the man's looting business this extensive and obscure?

"And who's this?" The man's eyes swept over Smith and widened in shock. "Merlin, is this–?" he breathed.

"Obliviate! Confundus! " he hissed. Sod the International Statute of Secrecy; there were one or two Muggles nearby, but he would deal with it later if need be.

Fletcher’s face clouded over.

Severus cursed himself for being so naïve and letting his guard down. They might be outside Britain, but that didn't mean they wouldn't encounter other British wizards.

“You will not remember seeing me and Harry Potter. You’ll order a cup of tea from some cafe and stay indoors until the sun sets,” Severus commanded in Fletcher’s ear.

Fletcher nodded dreamily. He turned and trudged away.

Now that was dealt with, Severus frantically whipped his head around to assess the surroundings. Thankfully, the majority of the crowd was down the block where the street market was.

He found Smith frozen on the spot, looking overwhelmed. Severus cast a Glamour Charm on Smith. He should have done this ages ago.

“Quick. We shall replenish our food supply and leave this town immediately,” he said, walking in hurried steps. He glanced over his shoulders to make sure Fletcher wasn’t heading their direction.

"Who was that?" asked Smith, trailing after him.

"Someone who would do you no good by knowing you're alive," he replied sharply.

It wasn't time yet.

He felt oddly protective of the man.

He would no doubt be overwhelmed by the wizarding world's overzealous reaction to his return.

The public, starving for a war hero, would surely adopt him once knowledge of his survival got out; the Prophet would probably style him the Boy Who Lived and follow his every move.

The only thing Severus could do was prepare him and delay the exposure until they got to Hogwarts.

~*~

Shopping for food was a rushed and tense process. Severus felt his heart thumping hard against his chest in anxiety and stayed constantly alert, afraid that he would hear his name over his shoulder any moment.

It seemed his attitude caused Smith more unease than the encounter with Mundungus Fletcher had done.

They walked nonstop. Severus urged them on, further and further away from the town, from the danger of exposure.

Only when the sun was setting and its bloody hue spread across the sky, and when they were a good three hours away from the town, did Severus relax. Slightly.

They stopped for a break and dinner.

Severus felt a curious gaze on him as he prepared their meal. Today it was his turn. As brewing and stirring were his nature, he did manage to cook something that remotely resembled soup.

He could feel the man’s gaze, curious and determined, boring into his back as he stirred.

"What?" he asked.

"You can manipulate people's memories. You can make people forget things. You can steal things without letting anyone know," said Smith. "Yet, you pay for stuff properly, with money.”

"Yes. It is a transaction. When you make a purchase, you pay for it," said Severus slowly, not yet understanding where the man was going with this.

"Yeah. But I think it's interesting that you choose to do that when you can use magic to do anything."

Severus narrowed his eyes.

"Are you planning to turn into a convict just because you are learning magic now?"

"No!" Smith cried. "That's not my point at all!"

Severus arched an eyebrow.

Smith gestured to Severus's wand. "You can take advantage of Muggles with all the magic you have, but you don't do that."

“Just because I can, does not mean that I should or do. Magical ability is a privilege and therefore a responsibility.” Severus grimaced as he said it. What a bloody hypocrite he was.

“Exactly. I think you have incredibly scrupulous moral standards,” said Smith with a smile.

Severus blanched. “How did you ever reach such a ridiculous conclusion?”

Smith gave him a look. “I mean, I told you just now,” he said. “You have access to all that power – you could commit serious crimes, cheat your way through the system, make yourself rich – and yet, you choose not to,” he said slowly, as if Severus was the thick one.

Severus clenched his jaw.

The naïve trust the man placed in him felt so wrong, so delusional and misguided. The man in front of him had absolutely no idea that he had committed serious crimes – unforgivable crimes. He had no idea the things he had done. His Dark Mark seemed to throb in mockery.

“You’re a good man, Snape,” said Smith with a conviction he never thought he could earn, not even from Dumbledore when he had made his oath. The sheer faith of that remark made his stomach twist with guilt and revulsion.

“You know nothing of me,” he said brusquely.

Smith blinked in surprise at the harshness of his tone.

“How can you be so naïve?” he hissed.

Smith remained stubborn. “Look, I know that you’ve done some things that wouldn’t qualify you as the most innocent person, but despite all that, I still think you are a good person.”

Severus opened his mouth, but Smith cut him off.

“I’ve done some bad things in my lifetime that I’m not proud to admit to. Yes, I can perhaps defend my actions by saying I was starving or freezing, but that still doesn’t make me feel any better about them.”

“My crimes hardly consist of stealing some food or making myself at home in some place where I had no right to be to avoid dying from exposure,” Severus sneered. This man’s backward assessment of his character – his foolhardy faith in him – it made him fume with the knowledge that he had once again found himself in possession of faith and trust and friendship that he didn’t deserve. “I committed murders, Smith. I helped kill people. ”

He leaned in, pinning Smith under his gaze. “Have you ever killed a person, Mr. Smith?” he whispered menacingly.

Smith reared backward as if he’d been slapped.

“Of course you haven’t,” Severus scoffed. “Your morals are pristine. But did you honestly think me oh-so-innocent and scrupulous? It is not so simple, so clear, for the rest of us,” he sneered.

“I-I…” Smith stammered, his eyes wide with fear.

“The soup is done. Eat,” he said, and stood up to retreat to the tent.

A whisper came from behind him.

“I killed my foster parents.”

Severus paused and turned slowly around.

Smith stared down at the ground, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

“I was afraid they were abandoning me. They told me they’d be going away for business, but I thought they were lying, because I thought they didn’t want me. I wanted them to stay with me. I didn’t want to go back to the orphanage again. Ever.” He swallowed thickly.

Smith looked like he was reliving the nightmare as he recounted it.

“They left me with a babysitter, who was nice and all… But I didn’t want them to go, so I sat there, closed my eyes, and desperately wished they wouldn’t go away, wished for them to come back…” he choked out.

“And that night there was a phone call, saying there’d been an accident. There had been a storm, and in all the rain… they took a sharp curve on the road… The crash killed them.” he choked.

Smith stared down at his shaking hands. He continued, his voice barely a whisper.

“But I knew that wasn’t what killed them – that it was me, with this fucking abnormal power that I have that I can’t even control.”

Severus gawked at him, his mouth agape.

Smith glanced up at him and chuckled bitterly. “Yeah, so, I killed a person. No, two people. Two people who did not deserve to have their kindness repaid with death. They thought they brought a child home. But no, it was a monster. A monster who killed them.”

“Accidental magic is bound by proximity. If you weren’t in the car, then the accident had nothing to do with you.”

Smith vigorously shook his head. “No, that’s not–”

Severus couldn’t completely stifle a derisive laugh. “That is just a child’s play compared to what I’ve done. And it’s likely that you had nothing to do with it.”

“But– no, you don’t understand!” he cried desperately. “I–”

“Trust me when I say this, and I speak as a wizard who knows more about magic and its fatalities than most: however desperately you were wishing that, whatever you think you subconsciously ordered your magic to do, the accident that involved your foster parents had nothing to do with you. Nothing.”

“But you weren’t there! What I… my magic… ” Smith struggled, looking panicked and frustrated at the same time.

His own frustration welled up. “Perhaps you can get this through that thick skull of yours, Mr. Smith. The world does not revolve around you. ”

A pulse of energy hit him squarely on the chest, and shoved him backwards. He felt the air being expelled from his lungs as his back landed hard on the ground. His ears rang with the force of it. There was a shuffling sound as Smith scrambled over to his side. He looked shaken to the core and collapsed onto his knees.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Snape- Severus,” he stammered as he ran his trembling hands over Severus.

He groaned.

As he opened his eyes he caught a bleary sight of Smith looking like he was about to pass out, miserable and panicking.

Smith jerked away from him and stumbled back, looking terrified.

Severus heaved himself up.

“Oh fuck, Snape, ba-back off. You need to get away.”

Severus swayed as his head throbbed. He steadied himself by placing his hand on a nearby tree. Leaves rustled beneath his feet as he took a step.

Their eyes met. Smith was so pale that he looked like he was going to keel over and die from guilt.

“No, no, no.” Smith kept staggering backwards as Severus advanced forward, until his back hit a tree.

The man whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut. “Please, keep away,” he said. “Please.” His arm shot forward, quivering, to keep him at bay.

Severus closed the distance and took the man’s hand into his own. It felt like ice.

Smith flinched at the warmth of Severus’s hand and bent his head. He let out a whimper and kept trying to wrench out of his grip.

There was an aura of energy around Smith, not quite tangible, but still existent. It felt wild, untamed, and frightened as it vibrated unsteadily.

“Please…” he pleaded when Severus didn’t yield. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

So this was the root of it. The root of all the failed attempts to cast magic. The seed of guilt and self-loathing and doubt buried deep inside and growing and growing the more he had to deal with magic at Severus’s insistence.

Severus gently coaxed the man to face him. “You won’t.”

Smith frantically shook his head, his eyes scrunched shut. When he opened them, Smith was far too immersed in fear, his pupils blown abnormally wide. In this state, Severus could not reason with him.

Instead, Severus closed his eyes. He had never done this before, only read about it in case studies; he mentally reached into his magical core and willed it alive.

It was a strange sensation. It was almost like producing a Patronus, but the magic emanated not from his wand, but from his chest. He could feel energy pulsating as his blood pumped into and out of his heart and circulated throughout his body.

And he felt the tendrils of his own magic stroking Smith’s wild magic, calming it. Smith’s magic arched away from his like a frightened cat and protested.

“Severus,” he gasped.

“Shh, it’s alright,” Severus murmured. “Just let go. ”

As he stared into Smith’s eyes, something deep inside the man seemed to crumble.

Then bright light enveloped them, but it brought neither of them any shock or pain. Instead, it was warm, like basking in the sunlight.

Smith’s magic purred.

A look of utter disbelief crossed Smith’s face when he realised his magic no longer posed a threat.

Then he clung to Severus like a child, letting out a sob of relief. Severus momentarily stiffened, but gently patted the man’s back.

He realised that Smith’s guilt and fear ran much deeper than he’d thought.

It must have been the first palpable happiness he had felt since he was found on the streets after the attack: having a family, a loving one, after spending several years in an orphanage. He’d probably never dared hope that he could be so happy. And to have that taken away and replaced with the thought that he or his magic might have had something to do with it… The doubt and guilt eating away at him. It must have been unbearable.

Severus tightened his arms around the trembling form.

Smith buried himself further into Severus's embrace, and his magic lazily danced around them along with his own.

It felt too intimate. Too close.

He had wanted to be closer, but now that Smith was in his arms, it was too much. And somehow not enough.

The warm body in his arms burned his skin. Smith's magic came in contact with his own again, dancing in the air and sending shivers down his spine. Smith's scent filled his lungs. He was simultaneously surrounding and surrounded by Smith. And it terrified him to realise how much he relished it.

~*~

They walked in silence.

Smith trailed after him, deep in his thoughts and battling with years of misguided guilt.

Severus let him be.

~*~

That night, Severus cast the routine protective wards around the tent. What differed from their usual pattern was Smith’s silent presence beside him.

Severus had expected the man to drop dead from fatigue. But he trudged over to where Severus was chanting spells and watched him.

"–muffliato, " he finished. "Is there something you want?”

Smith gulped. "Can you…can you teach me?" he asked softly, after a pause.

Severus bit down his lips, swallowing a remark about this being the first time Smith had willingly asked Severus to teach him magic since obtaining his wand.

“That can be arranged.”

~*~

After that, the man’s control over his magic improved exponentially. Soon, Smith was working his way up third year Charms and Defense and beyond. Severus was careful to focus on the most practical spells and curses, centering on defensive and offensive spells that would be the most useful in a duel.

Smith looked more at ease with his wand, his eyes expectantly shining, no longer displaying terror and uncertainty.

Severus had begun to notice a warm glow in Smith's eyes when he looked at him that he would hesitantly interpret as trust and faith.

And, frankly, Severus didn't know how to respond to it. There were precious few who gazed at him in such way. It often reminded him of Lily back when they had been friends, but sometimes Smith's eyes would sharpen with something he dared to think of as heated desire, which had never been in Lily's eyes, not that he had ever wished for it.

There were a few students in the past who had looked at him with feverish eyes, but that was merely physical desire fueled by fantasising about the forbidden. Not one had looked at Severus Snape with a mixture of warm affection and burning desire. Except Smith.

He also wondered if he himself unknowingly returned the gaze. Had Smith caught him appreciating his lithe body? His endearing smile?

Whenever he saw the man’s bright smiles directed at him, whenever he saw his eyes light up with happiness and excitement and still retain them when they gazed at him, it slowly ate away his insides. He wanted nothing more than to bask in the man’s trust and companionship, to revel in his warmth. But it was like an invisible burden on his chest, stealing his breath away and replacing it with guilt and self-loathing.

The easy camaraderie that had built up between them felt suffocating and undeserved.

“How about fried eggs and muffins for breakfast?”

Severus avoided his eyes.

~*~

If Smith had sensed his sullenness and detachment, he showed no signs of it other than tossing uneasy glances in his direction when he thought Severus wasn’t looking.

Severus did his best to stay aloof and maintain a professional attitude. They continued their practise sessions with a minimum of chatter and playfulness.

His nose first caught the salty air before he was able to see the ocean. Soon, above them, seagulls made strangled squawking sounds. Distasteful creatures, seagulls.

Finally, they reached the port.

~*~

Obtaining the ticket was easier than expected. The man at the ticket booth wasn’t at all keen on asking too many questions or checking identities. His breath smelled of alcohol, and his cheeks were flushed a dull red. He lazily waved Smith away after handing him two tickets.

Severus stared down skeptically at the faded orange life jackets with smudges. Everything about this ferry was old and dated.

 

A deep rumbling pierced his ears. It sounded like the horn signaling the start of a battle.

He did not trust methods of travel that divorced his feet from the solid ground. He did not care for vehicles, never mind broomsticks. One could not steady oneself in midair, nor find purchase on a machine. He had spent enough time with masters controlling him like a puppet. The least he could do is maintain control over his body now.

The boat hadn't even moved yet, but his stomach rolled like the undulating waves.

When the ferry gave a colossal lurch, in his panic, Severus reached out and gripped Smith's arm tightly.

"Whoa," said Smith. "You okay?"

"Yes," he rasped. "I am perfectly fine."

Unconvinced, Smith's worried eyes swept over him.

"You sure? You're… green."

"Don't be absurd," he snapped.

"Okay, you look just like your normal self, except a fetching shade of green."

His stomach lurched as the boat swayed and propelled itself forward.

For Merlin’s sake, he was a Potions master; he should have brewed some draught to relieve him from this abominable condition.

He cursed himself, cursed his eyes, cursed his inner ear, cursed his senseless brain, cursed the Muggles for inventing such despicable methods of transportation, and cursed Smith for putting him in this position. Aloud.

In an undignified display that seemed to go on for hours, Severus emptied his insides, bile and acid burning his throat. Eventually, there was nothing remaining inside to purge, but his stomach still churned.

"You weren’t kidding about your motion sickness," said a gentle voice. It was barely audible through the sound of blood rushing in his ears, and sounded far away. Still, the words brought to mind the lies he had told Smith in order to get him this far. The knowledge aggravated his nausea.

He felt haggard. He probably looked worse.

Smith’s hands circled his back in a soothing manner.

“Here, I bought some nuts.”

“Unless you want to see them in a toilet, I suggest you eat them yourself.”

“No, it’s for you. I heard chewing helps.”

Severus couldn’t even lift up his head. He felt queasy.

“Here,” said Smith and laid his hand on Severus’s chest, and another on his back, and hoisted him up. “I also heard looking out at the sea helps.”

“You’re surprisingly adept at taking care of people.”

“Wanna be social worker, remember?”

His vision swirled as the world rocked and swayed.

"You'll be alright. It's okay."

Staring at his kind face, Severus felt his stomach give another lurch, but of a different sort. His chest felt as raw as his throat.

“At least talk to me. If you can’t chew, maybe talking will take your mind off your stomach.”

“About what?” he rasped.

“I don’t know, anything. You can call me a dunderhead and point out all the stupid things I’ve done so far on this trip.”

“That would take days,” he managed to say without throwing up.

His stomach gave another unpleasant jerk. His chest heaved in another aborted attempt to vomit.

“Come on, Severus. Talk to me.”

It could have been the unbearable nausea, or perhaps it was the obnoxious seagulls chortling above them, or maybe it was Smith’s gentle voice that prompted him.

“I… have done many things of which I am not proud… things that I regret to this very day,” Severus said, his breathing still ragged from retching. He was only half aware of the words leaving his mouth. “I was blinded by hatred and arrogance,” Severus muttered.

A different kind of arrogance than that which James Potter had displayed. Or perhaps it was the same? He had been drunk with the knowledge of Dark Arts, the power it presented to him, thinking he was above them all.

Lily’s role in the Prophecy and her death had been a wakeup call.

He simply couldn’t serve him anymore. Knowing his one and only friend’s death was brought on by the very wand he had no choice but to respond to.

“It was too late when I realised the faults in my beliefs, and… and I’ve done what I can to make amends for my past, but I fear it will never be enough.”

His throat burned.

“It will never be enough. One cannot simply wash away the stains of sin, especially those as grave as mine.”

“But you’re not the same person that you used to be. You’re different now, you know better. You’ve spent all these years doing better. Doing good.”

It was such a naïve sentiment. But Severus found he took some comfort in it.

~*~

They no longer sat far apart from each other, as if avoiding the other like the plague. Instead, they sat close, sometimes with their shoulders brushing, their thighs touching, and sometimes with their hands ghosting over each other’s.

Severus ignored the tingling sensation that assailed him whenever his skin came into contact with Smith’s. He assured himself that he was imagining Smith's hands lingering a split second longer than was socially acceptable between two men without any attachments. Or two men with twenty years between them.

~*~

As Severus sat recuperating, Smith found a couple of people his own age to chat with to pass the time.

The girl was obviously interested in Smith; she was eagerly leaning toward him with a sparkle in her eyes.

Severus pursed his lips as he saw the bloke beside the girl leering at Smith and shamelessly undressing him with his eyes.

Severus turned away, scowling.

It wasn't his place to interfere with the man's choice of friends or relationships. As long as their identities weren't compromised, it would likely do him good to be in his peers' presence after spending so much time with only a man the age of his parents for company.

He turned to face them again. Why he wanted to torment himself, he didn’t know.

Smith laughed along with the man, throwing his head back, revealing the smooth lines along his tanned neck, and the man’s eyes lazily swept over them.

Something in him snapped.

Severus shot up from his seat and stalked forward.

"What's wrong? Are you seasick again?"

Only when he saw the baffled look on Smith's face did he realise how idiotic and rash his behavior was. He hastily let go of the man's arm.

"Never mind. Go back to your fraternising."

Smith shrugged. "It's alright. I'd rather stay here and talk with you.”

Severus tromped down the blooming warmth in his chest.

He raised his eyebrow. "Oh? As if you haven’t spent enough time in my presence in the last thirty days. We still have almost twice as much to come."

Smith smiled softly. “It’s fine. Do you want another pack of nuts? Salted ones?”

“You do not need to take care of me,” Severus gritted out. The last thing he wanted was his pity.

But Smith stayed. He stayed beside him and murmured into his ears, telling him anecdotes from his childhood about getting into trouble for magical mishaps and befriending street dogs and identifying with the eccentric characters from his favourite books. He talked of what he wanted to do when he retired.

Severus let his voice wash over him.

~*~

Severus tensed when the rusty speakers announced in between staticky interruptions that they would reach Britain in half an hour.

Smith eagerly craned his neck as he stood by the edge of the safety bars, eager to see land.

As much as he loathed to dampen the man’s excitement at returning to his country of origin, Severus had to let the man know.

“I must warn you, when we reach Britain, we will have to be cautious.”

“Yeah I figured as much when you put on your serious, brooding face as soon as we got on the ferry,” he said, putting on a deep frown as if to imitate him.

“There’s a war brewing. In fact, it has already begun.”

“How did it start? Why did it start?”

They had talked about the situation in Britain before, but never in detail.

Severus spent the rest of the ride quietly telling Smith of the Dark Lord, his agenda, his followers, and the opposition force, while they watched night fall over the ocean.

“That’s so ridiculous! Judging someone by their blood! People can’t choose that, it’s beyond their control, and they want to discriminate against people based on that?” he asked, enraged. “People actually believe and agree to this pure-blood supremacy bullshit? It’s nonsense!”

“Many do. Quite fanatically. Some swear loyalty to the Dark Lord and become his followers. Others, even if they disagree, may not have much choice. It is either their compliance or their life, or worse, the lives of their loved ones,” he said. “And shall I remind you that Muggles also discriminate based on skin color, or nationality, or religion, or sexual orientation, all of which people also have no control over?”

The man fumed. “I’m not saying that’s alright, no! Any form of discrimination is wrong!” he cried. “I just can’t believe even in your world, where magic happens, where impossibilities can become possibilities, there would still be so much discrimination and bigotry.”

“The presence of magic does not alter human nature,” he said dryly.

“Yeah, apparently,” said Smith with a wry smile.

"As you can imagine, the outlook is not too positive even for half-bloods,” he said. "You are a half-blood, with a pure-blood father and Muggle-born mother. Thus, we should be careful to avoid being seen until we reach Hogwarts."

It was the truth, Severus told himself. Just not all of it.

He still couldn't fathom his own reasons for being hesitant to tell the man of the prophecy. It contradicted all his principles. Severus was a man who stood by the belief that blissful ignorance was, in reality, a foolish denial that did no one any good. One had the right to know and prepare for the worst.

And yet, here he was, continuously putting off broaching the subject, making up excuses and lies, teaching the man how to defend himself, but not telling him the truth behind the necessity of it.

And he found himself sincerely meaning the words he was about to say.

“It is… understandable if you do not feel safe enough to go to Britain. You can refuse.”

Smith smiled. “Well, it’s too late for that, isn’t it? I’m already halfway there.”

“You can take the first ferry back. Or go somewhere else.”

“It’s alright. I-I still want to see where my parents lived.”

Severus nodded. A detour to Godric’s Hollow would not derail their trip by much.

“And you can be my knight in shining armour. Well, more like a knight in a black, billowing robe,” he said with a cheeky grin.

“Indeed.” He rolled his eyes in spite of himself.

~*~

The stable ground felt like a bliss under his feet.

He could feel the changing of the season in the cool breeze and the coloring of the leaves. The sunlight was no longer a blazing heat, but a comfortable warmth blanketing them.

They found it easier to walk, and seemed to cover more ground each day.

Yet, Severus found himself not so eager to will his legs to walk as fast as they had at the beginning of the trip.

~*~

They had yet to come across any other wizards or witches since entering Britain, but Severus stayed alert.

His eyes were quick to pick up the signs of Snatcher trails, or their absence, his ears any sort of muttered spell in the distance.

But those weren’t the only things his senses latched onto.

Severus’s eyes lingered on Smith, on his tanned face, on his lean and lithe physique, on his deft fingers wrapped around his wand with familiarity, on his clothes – sometimes loose enough to reveal his jutting collarbone, sometimes tight enough to reveal his slim waist.

It suddenly hit him that he was… coveting. Coveting what he was seeing as well as what he couldn’t see.

Severus buried his face in his palms.

For Merlin’s sake, the man was half his age. And James Potter’s spawn, no less.

It was impossible. And unacceptable.

He did not lust after Potter look-alikes.

Except Smith wasn't like James Potter. He wasn't like Lily, either. He was a different concoction, an amalgamation of a vastly different history nothing like Potter's or Lily's. Rather close to his own. But, oh, how different he was.

He wanted him. Not just physically: he also wanted the intimacy. He wanted to be close to Smith. Granted, they spent their every waking minute – even sleeping minutes – in each other’s presence, and it was frustrating to have someone constantly there without having your own privacy.

But he wanted to be… closer.

There was an insatiable need to be closer to him. Severus found himself purposely slowing down to match the man's steps so that their shoulders would sometimes brush, or the hem of his robes would caress the man's steps.

He wanted to ask after every detail of his life, about what kinds of things he had gone through to come out as this incredible creature of brilliance and kindness. Of course, Severus knew the man's life had not been all sunshine and daisies – he had gathered that much from the subtle nuances of their interactions. How could someone exposed to cruelty and apathy possess such a caring heart that even held space for Severus Snape?

But Severus had to remind himself that the man's attachment to him was merely the result of his role as the very first wizard he had met; the one who had revealed a whole new world to him. The man’s awe and fascination concerning the wizarding world were tied to him. No doubt he would have expressed similar sentiments to any witch or wizard who had revealed the presence of magic and the wizarding world – a world where he could belong.

He knew what he was like. Severus knew he didn't have a strikingly handsome face, nor a charming personality to make up for the lack of it. He was the very definition of “obnoxious and unappealing git.” Nonetheless, it didn't stop him from greedily bathing in the man's expressive affections.

But he had to brace himself for how their dynamic would change when they got to Hogwarts. He would no longer be the sole wizard whom Smith could go to with his questions or magical insecurities. There would be Dumbledore. There would be Black and Lupin. There would be other students, people his age, young and passionate people, who would be better for Smith.

~*~

“I was actually missing this tent,” said Smith. “Can you believe it?”

He snorted. Of course, Severus would take the hard ground in a tent over a comfortable bed on a ferry.

“I’ll cast the wards, yeah?”

Severus nodded. Smith made an impressive progress day after day, channeling his raw potential into his wand and his skills.

Severus was making his way to set up the meal when he heard Smith let out a loud gasp and an, “Oh!”

Heart pounding, Severus rushed outside, asking, “What is it? What happened?”

Smith was squatting down, and making strange hissing sounds at something near his feet. A snake.
Severus felt a thrill of fear run down his spine as flashes of the Dark Lord were ripped forward into his mind.

“We should move our tent. She says we’re right on top of her nesting hole underground.”

Severus remained frozen and speechless.

Smith looked at him, and his eyes widened.

“Oh, have I not mentioned I can talk to snakes?”

“No,” Severus said slowly.

“Er, can you, can you stop staring at me like I’m a ghost or something.”

Severus swallowed with difficulty. He nodded jerkily.

“From your reaction, I’m going to guess even in the wizarding world, talking to snakes is not really a common thing?” he asked, his face anxious.

“Very few have the ability, yes. Salazar Slytherin was also a Parselmouth.”

“Is that what it’s called?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

The Dark Lord was also a Parselmouth. He loved to remind his followers of his connection to Salazar Slytherin by hissing lovingly at Nagini between issuing orders.

He was a Parselmouth? How? Were the Potters distantly related to Salazar Slytherin? He thought the last descendants of the Slytherin line had died out.

“Have you always been able to talk to snakes?”

“Er, I think so? I mean, I don’t go around trying to find one to make a friend or something, but sometimes garden snakes would sneak in, and they’re so chatty, you know?”

“No, I don’t know.”

Smith shot him a look.

“At first I thought the voices belonged to people with weird lisps or something. But all they talked about was finding warm places and mice and holes.”

“Not particularly charming conversationalists, then?”

“Well, if you’re an orphan who’s also a loner because other kids won’t play with you ‘cos you’re a weirdo, it’s nice to have someone to talk to. Even if they’re snakes with weird lisps and very short attention spans. And an odd fascination with pillows.”

“Interesting.”

Severus’s mind reeled with possible explanations and origins for Smith’s Parseltongue.

~*~

The next day, the skies were grey, the air damp, and heavy clouds were ready to pour down the rain.

By noon the sun still hadn't appeared through the thick veils of murky clouds.

Severus cast an Impervius Charm on them, and continued to walk.

That night, flashes of lightning and deep rumblings of thunder shook the tent. And crisp air seeped in.

Shivering, Smith huddled into the blanket.

Foolish boy.

He cast a nonverbal Warming Charm at his direction, and, upon hearing the man's contented sigh, Severus fell back to sleep.

~*~

Their practice sessions continued to show that Smith had a natural aptitude for defensive spell work. However, like Severus himself, the young man lacked a flair for Transfiguration. After once again enduring complaints about the fluffiness of his transfigured pillows, Severus curtly suggested that Smith had learned enough Transfiguration to take care of his own pillows from now on.

And this was how Severus knew the young man would have been a Gryffindor: despite knowing full well that Transfiguration was not his strong suit, Smith proceeded to single out the nearest decent-sized rock, draw his wand, and attempt to transform the stone into something worthy of resting his tousled head upon.

At first, Severus thought he had succeeded. Smith looked down upon his handiwork, which certainly looked like a pillow, with a smug grin on his face. He shot Severus a superior look and made to snatch it up airily from where it lay on the ground, before suddenly letting out a shockingly loud, “HUH?” as his momentum redirected him backward, and he fell, with a resounding thud, onto his backside. Evidently his spell had only worked superficially, and his “pillow” still had the mass and density of a sizable rock.

It started deep in his chest and worked its way up, and, before Severus could help it, a startled laugh burst out and he couldn't stop laughing.

While breathless with laughter, Severus saw in the corner of his eyes Smith blushing in embarrassment, and then staring at him in wonder as if he had never seen such a sight.

As Severus was wiping tears from his eyes, Smith had donned a fiercely determined look on his face, and attempted to Transfigure another rock.

The stone slowly morphed into a pillow, and this time, it did look as light and puffy as a normal pillow should be, Severus noted. Smith threw a triumphant smile at him, and, since he learned his lesson with the previous one, gently poked it with his wand.

This time, it proceeded to melt into some sort of gelatinous puddle.

“Oh god, whyyy,” Smith moaned.

Chuckling, Severus said, “Perhaps it is time you accept this goo-type Transfiguration as part of yourself and let us move on to Defense.”

Smith ran a hand over his hair, making it wilder. “Yeah.” He nodded.

~*~

“Today we’ll be practising the Patronus Charm. I cannot stress enough the importance and usefulness of this magic. It is the only known charm that will drive off Dementors and Lethifolds. The Dark Lord has allied with a group of Dementors, so we may encounter them on the way, as they were recently given a free rein.”

Smith shuddered. In their earlier question and answer sessions on the road, Severus had told him of various magical creatures roaming the wizarding world.

“It is highly advanced magic, but you will manage to cast it eventually. You will practise until you can.”

Smith swallowed nervously.

“Do not hope to succeed in your first try. The incantation is Expecto Patronum. But incantation alone is not enough. It will work only if you are concentrating with all your might on a single, happy memory of great magnitude. When you succeed, you will conjure a full corporeal Patronus – a guardian in the shape of the animal with which you share the deepest affinity.”

“What’s yours?”

Severus did not reply; instead he cast, “Expecto Patronum. ”

From the tip of his wand burst the silver doe. She landed on the forest floor, trotted around them, nudging Severus’s hand, and stared into Smith’s eyes with her silvery ones, before vanishing.

“She’s beautiful,” he breathed in wonder.

Severus felt his throat constrict. “Yes,” he said after a pause. “Yes, she is.”

“I wonder what mine will be.”

“If I may speculate based on your character, perhaps something bovine in nature.”

“You think so?” he asked, horrified.

“No.”

Severus didn’t believe in the theory that one’s Patronus reflected one’s character. No, there was no way Severus could conjure such a beautiful, innocent creature when his character was so prickly and his conscience so tarnished, if that were true.

He wondered if there was even a creature pure enough to represent the inherent good in Smith.

Smith furrowed his eyebrows in concentration, and chanted, “Expecto Patronum.”

Amorphous silvery mist flowed out of Smith’s wand before dissipating a moment after.

“Huh.”

“Performance issues?” He smirked.

Smith’s jaw dropped, and he flushed in crimson. “Did you just… ?”

Severus arched an eyebrow, his face carefully blank.

Smith shook his head, muttering something under his breath.

He kept practising, but only managed to produce a wisp of silvery cloud.

~*~

“What do you think of when you cast the Patronus Charm?”

Smith averted his gaze. “Uhm. The first, and, well, the last Christmas I had with my foster parents.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Smith smiled absently. “Receiving gifts was great and all, but having a family to eat meals with, who didn’t go on and on about my table manners and threaten to starve me if I didn’t behave, it’s… It was amazing. And having someone hugging you back when you put your arms around them… it’s a small gesture but meant the world to me.”

“Do you still feel guilty when you think about them?”

“Well… Yeah, it’s hard to throw away years of guilt in a couple of weeks.”

“Then I suggest you find another memory on which to concentrate. This memory of Christmas is too guilt-ridden for you to be able to conjure a full Patronus.”

“Oh,” he said. Smith looked lost. “I don’t know of any other memories, though.”

“Perhaps we’ll stop by a restaurant with an unlimited buffet if you need a new happy memory.”

Smith laughed. “Git.” After a moment, he asked, “Can you cast yours again?”

Severus obliged. “Expecto Patronum. ”

He would never tire of Smith’s awed expression whenever he saw the silvery doe.

“What do you think of when you cast it?”

Severus pursed his lips.

He thought about Lily, about their childhood. Or, he had thought about it.

As of late, Severus found himself unwittingly latching onto the memories of Smith when he dared to laugh at his sarcastic remarks, or swelled with pride after learning a new spell, or greeted him in the morning with his fond smile.

And it was surprising to find that his Patronus was still a doe.

~*~

“So far we haven’t run into any serial killers or robbers. And even though I‘m really amazed by your constant paranoia, I think we really need to sleep on a proper bed at least once,” he said. “Not on the same bed, of course,” the man added. “Separate beds.”

“Said paranoia has kept us alive.”

“Yes, and I’m grateful for that, but I see you rub your back every morning in pain after you get out of the bed you transfigured from a bloody rock.”

“I thought you said you missed the tent,” said Severus, ignoring the comment on his health.

“Yeah, and that was a week ago… Come on, Snape, this place is in the middle of nowhere, and I seriously doubt the evil Dark Lord is lurking out here,” he gestured to the surrounding flora.

Indeed, his own back was aching; as much as he tried to transfigure anything into a decent bed, it still felt like sleeping on a pile of pebbles digging into his back.

“Fine,” he conceded.

Smith threw his arm in the air and whooped.

“We’ll stay in the next village we come across.”

And it turned out the next village was three hours away.

“I told you we should have stayed there!”

“If we had, then we would have missed the opportunity to harvest such a fine collection of monkwood. They can only be obtained at dusk.”

“You’re obsessed,” said Smith, with an exasperated affection in his eyes. And swung the door open and stepped into the inn.

“You wouldn’t be complaining if it was edible mushroom or berries.”

“Touché.” Smith smiled wickedly at him.

Unbelievable, he thought, shaking his head, and walked up to the reception desk.

“One night, please.”

“One bed, of course?” asked the innkeeper with such certainty that it left both of them gaping at him.

They both froze. “No!”

“Then separate rooms?”

They shared a look.

“I’m on a tight budget,” said Smith brightly.

“Indeed, I do not know when we’ll come across the next Wizarding bank,” Severus muttered so only Smith could hear him.

“One room. Two beds, please,” said Smith pointedly.

The innkeeper shrugged and handed them a pair of keys.

“Er,” Smith coughed. “Dunno why this keeps happening. The one-bed thing,” he said once they washed and settled into their respective beds.

The room smelled strangely like moss and damp wood. But other than that, it was quite adequate.

“Indeed,” he said dryly as he arranged the bed sheets.

“Well, actually, it might be me. ‘Cos I’m…” he trailed off, gaze darting away.

“You’re queer?” Severus couldn’t keep the surprised tone from his voice. He had assumed Smith was as straight as James-skirt-chaser-Potter.

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“Sort of,” he repeated.

"I've had a girlfriend." A pause. "And a boyfriend." Smith eyed him nervously.

"Not at the same time, I hope?"

Smith sputtered and glared at him. "You're teasing me," he said in realisation after a moment.

"An astute observation, Mr. Smith."

Smith rolled his eyes.

"So, you are bisexual, then?"

"Uhm, I guess so?" He still looked nervous.

"What?" Severus asked.

"You're not going to tell me to pick a side or threaten me to stay away from your virtues or something?"

"Is that typically the response you get?"

"Yeah. Sort of. I mean, I don't go around telling people, for one thing. But, yeah." Smith fidgeted awkwardly, his fingers pulling at the edge of his pillow.

"How did you know you were… Uhm." Smith made a vague hand gesture.

"Queer?"

"Yeah."

“What makes you think I am?” Severus quelled a surge of panic rising in his chest. Was his pining that obvious?

Smith’s eyes widened comically and he flushed. “Oh god, I’m sorry. You aren’t? I just assumed… Not that you’re, uhm. You know. Oh my god.” He clutched his head in dismay. “Oh shit. My gaydar is fucked up. I’m so sorry.”

“Gaydar?” Severus shot him a look, arching an amused eyebrow.

“Er, yeah. You know, a radar detecting…”

“Gays,” he finished.

Smith nodded, his face still scarlet.

“And how does your… gaydar work? I assume you don’t actually have an alarm that alerts you once you set your eyes on homosexuals.”

“I mean, it doesn’t matter since it’s not functioning properly.” He buried his face in his hands and moaned into his palms. “Oh my god,” he groaned. “I thought you were coming on to me at the pub.”

“I distinctly remember telling you I was not,” said Severus.

“Oh. Right.” Smith looked mortified. He made his way to bury himself further beneath the sheets.

Severus decided to relieve him from the abyss of humiliation.

“There’s no need to look into getting your gaydar repaired. It is still functioning quite well.”

Smith shot up from his bed. “What?” he asked, alarmed.

“Your gaydar did not fail you.”

Smith gazed at him with a baffled look, and his eyes widened. “Oh.”

Severus grimaced. Then there was an indescribable emotion gleaming in Smith’s eyes.

He felt pinned under his gaze and, in an attempt to distract him, he asked, "Are you confused, Mr. Smith?"

"No, no. I'm quite sure about what I am. Or rather, what I like, I guess."

“Both flavors?”

“Oh my god, it is so surreal to have this conversation with you. Especially you saying stuff like that.”

Severus snorted. Since getting to know him, Smith must have come to regard him as if he were a celibate with no earthly desires.

He turned off the lights.

He could hear Smith’s steady breathing.

“The guy I was with at the uni in London… He wanted to try out a few things with me to see if he really was, uhm, gay.”

Something about Smith’s tone told him this hadn’t ended well.

“God. I was head over heels for that bloke. He was this athlete, popular and funny, and bloody brilliant – or so I thought. I did everything he asked. Now looking back, I can't even,” he groaned in shame.

“We all do foolish things for love," said Severus in consolation, ignoring the flares of jealousy crawling up inside him.

“How could I have done those things?” he cried in dismay.

“Were they criminal in nature?” he asked carefully.

Smith gaped at him. “No, oh god, no. I may have been madly in love but I wasn't that far gone.”

The man was ridiculously moral.

“It was more along the lines of lewd and indecent acts," he said in a rueful tone.

For a moment, Severus was reminded of the times he caught infernal, hormone-driven students out of bed in compromising positions in his classroom, and sometimes, unbelievably, on his desk. He had relished making them scrub the floors, his desk, and all the cauldrons clean with their toothbrushes.

“Apparently his friends weren’t totally satisfied with his ‘experimenting’ excuse after they walked in on him blowing me on his couch.”

Severus stiffened.

“Later he told his friends I got him drunk and took advantage of him. And they took turns threatening me to never come near him and ‘turn him gay.’”

Severus clenched his jaw, and was grateful for the darkness concealing his ugly rage.

“I got mad. I was an idiot. I was angry, but I still loved him even though he was being such a git. So, I confronted him in front of his house, and I told him he was being a git and a coward by letting his friends control his life, and he got angry and screamed he wasn't gay and he didn't even like me, he just wanted to 'fuck a fag' to see what it felt like. So we both got angry, and…" Smith buried his face in his hands, his voice muffled. "It quickly turned nasty. He was beating me up, telling me to never come back, to get out of his sight, that he'd come after me if I told anyone else about us and what we did. I was so fucking scared that I was going to die, and I just wanted out. I kept crawling to try to get away but he kept following me and kicked me. And then, then something happened. I couldn’t see anything because of all the blood in my eyes, but something shoved him backwards and he got knocked out. I thought he was dead or something, and I thought, oh my god, it happened again. I killed someone. It's because of this abnormal… force inside me."

Severus’ eyes adjusted to the dark enough to see Smith staring down at his trembling hands.

"You were defending yourself."

"But–" he protested.

“Your magic did what it could to protect you when your life was threatened. It was self defense, Mr. Smith.”

Smith laughed bitterly. “Yeah, self defense.” He didn’t sound convinced.

“Mr. Smith, you are blaming yourself for what was justified. If you had let him continue his violence, you might have ended up with a concussion or internal damage. You did what you had to,” he said firmly.

“Okay,” he sighed resignedly.

“Did you come across him after that?”

“No. Well, sort of. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t dead. When I found out he wasn’t dead or incapacitated, I packed up and left London.”

"What about your… female companion?"

Smith gave him such a sad smile that his heart ached.

"I was naïve. And lonely,” he said quietly. “After the whole disaster with that arsehole, I thought I would never find someone who would love me for being… me.

“And then I met her. Christ, she was such a gentle soul. I was working part time at a restaurant after telling my uni I'm taking a gap year – I just didn't want to go back where I… with him…”

Severus nodded.

“She came by every Saturday afternoon for brunch and tea. When there weren't that many people, I would chat with her, and… she was amazing.

“I wanted to believe that I could control my magic and it would all be better. It took me a week to realise that wasn't the case.”

“What happened?” he gently probed.

“I was upset that my dog died. Well, technically he wasn’t my dog since he was a stray, but he always came by my place and I’d feed him and let him sleep inside if it rained or got too cold. And then I found him on the street, run over by a fucking car.” He choked. “God, I was a mess. And I started exploding things in my house.”

Smith swallowed. "I couldn’t control it. Every time I felt angry, or scared, I… I’d go on this rampage like a mindless beast just destroying things. And hurting people. So… I pushed her away. I didn't want her to get hurt. She wanted to talk, wanted some sort of explanation, but I just told her off. God, I was such a prick. I think I hurt her more emotionally by doing that. But at least she's safe from me.”

Dejection was plain in his voice

"I haven’t been with anyone since in case my… magic went haywire." He spat out the word as if it were an abomination. And perhaps it was, to him. Severus couldn't blame the man. All these bursts of accidental magic had given this man nothing but unpleasant memories.

Smith let out a hollow laughter. "Sorry for unloading all of that on you. I think it's this bloody fluffy bed. It just makes you want to pour everything out."

"Indeed."

There was a nervous tossing and turning.

“Uhm, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Have you ever, you know, had your heart broken? Or broken someone’s heart?” Clearly the young man was in a sharing mood.

“I…” Severus halted. How to answer? Should he reveal to the man that for more than twenty years his sexual preference had existed only in theory? That since the few pleasurable hay-rolls he’d enjoyed with fellow Slytherins as a teenager, he’d been too consumed with regret and obligation to bother finding a lover?

“I had trysts in my adolescent years. But none of them was serious or emotionally involved,” he swallowed, “and after that, the war escalated.”

“So, no ill-fated wartime romances then?” Severus quickly dismissed the absurd notion that he was currently in the throes of an ill-fated – if one-sided – wartime romance.

“Are you aware that you’re incredibly nosy, Mr. Smith?” The man began forming an apology, but Severus cut him off. “I am a professor at a boarding school; we have no time or space to cultivate private lives. I do not have a…” he struggled to find a word that was not distasteful, “mate,” he finished.

“Oh. Oh! Wait, you’re not a–”

Severus sighed. “No. But I have been a professor my entire adult life. It is a solitary existence.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Good night, Mr. Smith,” he said with an air of finality.

And then there was silence.

~*~

“Godric’s Hollow is not too far from here.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the wizarding village in which you and your family lived.”

Smith’s eyes lit up. “Can we go?”

“Perhaps… later. It is far too dangerous to visit Godric’s Hollow at the moment. It’s known to have a large population of wizards who oppose the Dark Lord, so it is currently under rigorous surveillance.”

“Oh.” His shoulders slumped.

~*~

Severus dreamed.

It was a familiar pattern. He was by the lake, surrounded by an apathetic crowd only intent on seeing his humiliation. James Potter was taunting him, with his cronies at his side – unruly hair, perpetually arrogant smirk, disdain colouring his hazel eyes.

“Snivellus.”

The insulting nickname never failed to make his blood boil, even after all these years, and even in his sleep.

In these dreams, Severus could never reach his wand in time, could never finish articulating a retort – or a curse – in time, and his body froze as the crowd jeered and relished his shame.

But this time something was different.

The loathsome hazel eyes slowly became bright green, and gone was the fierce hatred and derision in those eyes, replaced with steadfast trust. A jagged scar appeared on his forehead. The tight lines softened, and the sneer became a shy smile.

“Severus.”

A hand reached out and sank into his hair, softly stroking wayward strands away from his face.

Severus soaked up the affection and trust radiating from the man, feeling them anew as his arms found their way around him, pulling him closer. The sound of the crowd mocking him fell away, and the only thing he heard was Smith softly calling his name, repeatedly, with such reverence.

Severus stared wordlessly at Smith’s face, and lifted his hands to cup his cheeks. Smith leaned into the touch, and Severus felt his body ache with want.

Then the face shifted. It was James Potter again.

“Always a coward, Snivellus.”

Severus reeled back as if burnt. He stumbled backward.

“You aren’t going to tell my son he has to face Voldemort, are you?” James sneered and advanced forward until Severus was looking right into his eyes. “You don’t want to be the one doing the dirty job.”

Now the face morphed into a creature that possessed both Smith’s and Potter’s faces.

“You coward,” they said in unison.

Severus awoke with a gasp.

He was drenched in sweat, and his hands were shaking. He cast the Tempus Charm. It was only three a.m.

Severus frantically rummaged through his satchel until he found a vial of Dreamless Sleep Potion. He drained it in one.

He ran his hands over his face.

Severus turned his head to find Smith still sleeping, undisturbed, in the bed next to him. He looked so young, so innocent, without a clue, without any suspicion as to where Severus was leading him.

He couldn’t bear to look.

Severus buried himself in his sheet, facing the other way, his back towards Smith.

Thankfully, the potion worked; he did not dream.

~*~

The next day Severus could not look Smith in the eye.

Shame weighed him down.

Even water burned his throat. It tasted like guilt.

~*~

The sun was setting, bleeding crimson in the sky.

They continued to walk.

Severus was morbidly thinking about how the British sunset seemed to reflect the blood spilled at the hands of the Dark Lord when Smith let out a pained cry and collapsed.

Alarmed, Severus rushed to his side and quickly cast a Diagnostic Spell, which reported nothing was wrong.

Smith was writhing in pain, his eyes scrunched shut, panting heavily through his nose while clenching his teeth so hard that Severus feared he might crack his teeth.

“What’s wrong?” he said sharply, watching helplessly as Smith further lost himself in pain.

Smith didn’t seem to hear him, clutching his forehead in a viselike grip, only pained whimpers escaping his sealed lips.

Fear gripped his heart and twisted his insides. What was happening? It wasn’t poison, nor any malady, magical or Muggle.

“Smith! Smith!” Severus shook him vigorously.

His eyes rolled backward and a terrible scream escaped his mouth that turned Severus’s blood to ice.

As he was thrashing, his cheeks and arms were getting scratched and grazed from sand and sharp gravel, and that was the only thing Severus could attend to.

Each second watching Smith in pain felt like an eternity of agony of his own.

Finally, thank Merlin, the screams reduced to whimpers and Smith blearily opened his eyes.

“Snape?” he croaked.

Severus couldn’t find words as a wave of gratitude washed over him when it seemed like Smith was no longer in danger.

“Water?”

That he could do. Severus hastily dug through his satchel and found a bottle of water. He carefully cradled Smith’s head on his chest with his arms and slowly tipped the liquid into Smith’s mouth.

After a few gulps, Smith’s eyes fluttered open and met his own.

“We’re, we’re still in the woods, right? We’re not in some posh mansion?”

Severus thought Smith had finally lost it.

“What on earth are you talking about?” he said cautiously.

“The vision–” he struggled.

“What vision?” he asked sharply, while helping Smith up.

“I’ve been getting these weird dreams lately, and whenever I wake up from them, my scar hurts.”

“Lately? How long has this been going on?”

“Uhm… about a week?”

“And why am I just learning of this now?”

Smith had the nerve to look sheepish. “I’m good at Silencing Charms.”

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. “You imbecilic… your scar starts to hurt out of the blue and it didn’t occur to you to tell me?”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“And look where that led!” he snapped. He had almost suffered a heart attack watching Smith convulse in pain.

“Now, tell me about these dreams and visions in detail: their frequency, how vivid they are, how much you remember, and what they consist of.”

Smith answered as they walked in slow paces – Severus did not want to strain the man after his shock. But the more he listened, the more Severus felt the blood drain from his face as he realised these visions were of the Dark Lord, and the posh mansion Smith described was Malfoy Manor, where the Dark Lord held his homicidal assemblies. And these visions had started after they’d entered Britain. Did it have something to do with geographical proximity? And how did Smith even have access to the Dark Lord’s mind?

Severus stilled.

Did that mean the Dark Lord also had access to Smith’s mind?

If he had, surely Smith would have noticed by now. No, that might not be the case, since the Dark Lord was unaware that there was an almost-Muggle Harry Potter alive and unwittingly traipsing about his mind.

Smith needed to learn Occlumency.

~*~

That night, after setting up the tent and casting extra layers of protective wards, they built a small fire.

“Is the man in my dream the one that killed my parents?”

“Yes.”

“But how is it that I’m seeing this stuff? You don’t get these weird visions, right? It’s not this killer-dictator using some brainwashing magic to influence every wizard and witch in Britain?”

“No. I think you are the only one with this ability,” said Severus truthfully, at least so far as he was aware.

“Christ,” Smith breathed. “What the hell. Why me though?”

This was it. This was his moment to come clean and reveal everything to him about the prophecy, about Dumbledore’s words, and about what would be expected of him once they reached Hogwarts.

But staring into Smith’s lush green eyes, gazing up at him with trust and affection, burnt his resolution to ashes. He was too reluctant to give this up.

Severus cursed himself.

He was a selfish, greedy man, he told himself. It would be untimely if he suddenly listened to his conscience after ignoring it for too long.

“There is a way to stop these visions.”

“Will it stop the pain, too?” he asked hopefully.

“It may, but I cannot guarantee it.”

“Well, might as well try, right? Not too much a fan of pain.”

Neither was he. Especially when it came to witnessing Smith’s.

“Occlumency is the magical defense of the mind against external penetration. An obscure branch of magic, but a highly useful one.”

Smith’s lips twitched.

“First you need to empty yourself of emotion. You wear your heart proudly on your sleeve, but it is imperative that you learn to control your emotions.”

“Okay, so how do I practice?”

“Meditate, and contain your emotion. Then I shall attempt to penetrate your mind. You will attempt to resist.”

Smith’s mouth curled upward and colour rose to his cheeks. He coughed.

“What?” he snapped, wondering what he had missed. He replayed the words again in his mind. “Oh for Merlin’s sake. Aren’t you too old to be a hormonal juvenile?”

Smith snickered.

“So how are you going to penetrate my mind?” He batted his eyelashes as he stared up at Severus. “With your wand?” he waggled his eyebrows, smiling wickedly.

Severus was an Occlumens for a reason. He stored away his flustered emotions in the back of his mind, and leaned in to whisper, “Are you prepared to resist me, Mr. Smith?”

Smith’s jaw went slack. Then, after a moment, he swallowed thickly and said in a low voice, his eyes hooded, “I may need some time to prepare myself.”

Suddenly the air felt too warm. He blamed it on the fire.

Smith held his gaze, and Severus found it hard to break away. His tanned skin shone a lovely shade of gold under the warm firelight, and his green eyes sparkled with each flicker of flame. Right there and then, Severus wanted nothing more than to bury himself in the warmth that was Evan Smith and bask in it.

“You know, I never really thanked you for all the trouble you’ve put yourself in for me. I’m sorry for all the inconvenience I’ve caused you… making you travel the whole way by foot and all. I’m really thankful for it. I’m really… well, I’m really glad that you were the one who found me.”

Smith smiled gratefully at him.

“You are not an inconvenience,” Severus managed to let out through the tightness of his throat. It felt like there were shattered pieces of glass lodged there.

His smile turned soft, and warm.

And then Smith did the unthinkable, and kissed him.

It was hesitant, yet brimming with youthful desire and confidence underneath the shy surface.

Severus’s eyes snapped open, wide as saucers, as he stared at Smith, eyes closed and brows furrowed in utmost concentration and sincerity.

Severus couldn’t help his body leaning in, chasing after the warmth, and for a blissful second he forgot about the war and the prophecy, about the web of lies he had spun around Smith; instead, he focused on the man before him and the way his tongue rolled flawlessly over his own.

But only for a second.

Severus pulled away. As the man’s mouth followed him, Severus put on his hands on Smith’s shoulders and shoved him back.

“What is the meaning of this?!” he spat.

Smith looked floored. “I, I,” he stammered.

"I do not kiss young boys!"

Smith flared up. "I'm nineteen!"

"Which is half my age!"

He schooled his features, hoping to Merlin his face wasn’t flushed like a teenager’s.

Smith’s eyes flickered over his stony face, and they dimmed in disappointment and hurt from what they saw. Severus ignored it.

“Sorry,” Smith mumbled. “I shouldn’t have…”

Severus set his jaw. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

He was being delusional. He did not go around lusting after and kissing Potters. Or any boys half his age, full stop.

Smith’s face fell. He drew himself away.

“Right.” Smith nodded. “Sorry,” he apologised again, and fled into the tent.

Severus remained by the fire until it died out, watching until only a whiff of smoke lazily danced into the night sky.

~*~

They walked in silence.

It was drastically different from their usual companionable silence.

Before, the silence between them had been like a half-opened door: not completely shut, but tentatively inviting a conversation anytime either one of them wanted to talk to or ask a question of the other. It was an acceptance and appreciation of each other’s internal space – to be in their head and think without disruption or the pressure to fill the silence with inane babble.

Now it felt like a locked room: suffocating. And the pressure – it was too much. The tension between them seemed to resonate in the air, and Severus just wanted to cover his ears.

When they briefly made eye contact, Smith put on his best ‘Nothing is wrong. I’m not freaking out. Are you freaking out? No? Right. Everything is okay’ face. It looked horrible.

~*~

They set up their tent in the middle of the forest.

It was his turn to prepare supper, so he set to work as Smith paced around the tent casting the wards.

Supper was a tense affair, neither of them speaking to fill the awkward silence that had persisted since Smith’s inappropriate behavior.

As Severus busied himself with the washing up, he heard Smith’s voice call out nervously from the tent, “Uhm, Snape? I think you should come here. Quickly.”

If it was another snake, then he was going to blast its head off. This would be the third time they moved the tent today.

“What is it?” he barked.

“Shh!” came a hissed reply.

He found Smith petrified on the spot, listening intently. He glanced at Severus. “I hear muffled voices outside the wards.”

Tensing, Severus inched closer to the edge of the ward, and listened. Indeed, there were faint voices.

Severus wordlessly summoned a modified Extendable Ear, courtesy of the infuriating but talented Weasley twins. With a flick of his wand, the Ear turned invisible and slowly inched beyond the ward, and he plugged the other end into his ear, shoving the third end to Smith.

“–I’m telling you, I smell something. I smell humans,” a voice growled.

“You sure you’re not smelling us?” another replied disdainfully.

“Where do you smell these humans, Greyback?”

Severus froze. He only knew one Greyback with an acute sense of smell who would be prowling the woods at night. He felt his legs go weak.

“Over there.”

“But there was nothing there.”

“You idiot, are you a wizard or not? Maybe there are wards around that we missed.”

His heart pounding in his ears, Severus summoned his satchel, whipped out a flask and a randomly selected strand of hair and unscrewed the stopper.

“Severus? What–” Smith whispered, his eyes impossibly wide with fear. “You’re, you’re so pale. Are they–?”

“Drink,” he ordered, thrusting the flask into Smith’s mouth.

“What?”

“Drink!” he hissed. “Now!”

Baffled, Smith downed the vial and gagged. “Blerghh, what the fuck–?”

“You need to finish it this second!”

“Okay! Okay!”

Smith made noises like a dying hippogriff, but he managed to finish the potion in an instant.

They both stilled when they heard a sound from their ends of the Extendable Ear.

“Scabior! Bring the Ward Disabler!”

A man whom Severus assumed was Scabior grumbled, “Who the fuck hides out here, of all places?”

“Oh I don’t know, Mudbloods? Traitors? Who else would hide out here?”

“Could just be some Muggles having a grope…”

“Or, more like, Mudbloods hiding behind protective wards.”

Beside him, Smith keeled and writhed in pain, his features distorting from agony as well as magic.

“Severus, what ‒” he panted between ragged breaths. There was fear and disbelief as he gazed at Severus with eyes that were not his own. He squinted as he tried to see out of presumably healthy eyes while still wearing his thick glasses. What was he thinking? That Severus had given him poison? He couldn’t blame the man. The Polyjuice Potion transformation was so painful that people compared it to the metamorphosis that werewolves experienced.

Severus grimaced; the hair he’d randomly added to Smith’s dose had apparently come from a man in his early twenties with blond hair and pointy features. He bore an uncanny resemblance to one Draco Malfoy.

He snatched the glasses from his temporary face to stop his squinting and stuffed them into one of Smith's pockets.

“What? Oh. Thanks… What do we do?” he whispered.

“We fight.”

“What? There must be at least five of them out there.”

“I am quite a skilled duelist.”

“But you’ll get hurt! I saw your face when they mentioned Greyback, whoever that is,” Smith murmured.

“Hush, I need to listen,” Severus snapped at him.

But Smith came up to him and… started undoing his robes.

“What are you doing?!” he hissed, alarmed. Undeterred, Smith kept fumbling and his hands crept onto Severus’s thigh. “Smith, have you lost your mind?” he nearly shouted.

“Shut up,” Smith whispered. “Just trust me, okay?” And, in the blink of an eye, Smith shucked his shirt over his head, ruffling his already messy hair. As if that wasn’t enough, he ran his hand through his tousled hair to give it an ‘in middle of a shag’ look.

Just as Smith was draping himself over Severus, with a sickening Crack, he heard the protective wards they had cast around the tent being stripped bare.

Footsteps approached the tent.

Smith’s arms shot out and looped around his neck.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” a voice shot out from the dark.

“Are we interrupting something?”

Smith finally relinquished Severus from his hold but remained by his side, affecting annoyance rather than embarrassment at having been “interrupted.”

When Smith’s warm skin left his own, Severus could finally breathe and think clearly.

There were five of them including Greyback. They all looked as if they needed a proper wash and a meal, displaying oily hair and ragged clothing and feral looks on their faces. The pair in the back whispered among themselves, “Told you it’s some groping,” and “Yeah, this is the last place I’d pick for a shag.”

A man with long hair swaggered towards them. “Well, isn’t he a pretty specimen,” he crooned. “Let me take a good look at you.”

Smith flinched.

Snape snarled in fury and slapped the imploring hand away with a possessive growl. The man’s face turned nasty and he whipped out his wand at the same time Severus drew his own.

“Who do you think I am?” the man said haughtily, shoving the tip of his wand to Severus’ chest with each word. “Let me see your Blood Registration card!” he barked.

The man was clearly not Marked. He lacked the depressed air of a downtrodden servant that most Marked Death Eaters carried around. It was a common mistake of the unmarked to think they had the whole world down at their feet by allying with the Dark Lord. But the ones who were Marked, they knew what power truly was, and how vicious it could be… how their lives were tied to the Dark Lord’s whims.

“Who do you think I am?” Severus sneered. He rolled up his left sleeve.

The Snatcher’s face paled as he saw the Mark and, cowering away, he stammered, “I-I apologise for my insolence, sir.”

In the corner of his eyes, he saw Smith freeze.

“Snape?”

Severus stiffened. He would recognise that gruff voice anywhere: Fenrir Greyback. If Lupin in his werewolf state was like a wild dog, Fenrir Greyback in his human self was a giant, rabid hound. Severus shuddered to think what he was like during the full moon.

“Greyback,” he acknowledged him.

Severus moved to shield Smith with his own body from Greyback’s predatory gaze.

Greyback took one look at him and Smith, at their disheveled state and significant lack of clothes, and his hairy eyebrows shot to his forehead.

“Well, I always wondered where all that uptight energy went. I guess you channel it to your dick.” Greyback howled with laughter.

Severus gritted his teeth. “There is a reason I go to these extreme measures to satisfy my tastes.”

Greyback sneered, revealing his sharp canines. “Your secret is safe with me. Right, lads?” he called around him.

There was a low murmur of agreement.

“I heard Dumbledore ordered you to go around the country to recruit more of the Order of whatnot. This is what you’ve been doing, getting yourself a young blond on a camping trip while I rot in the woods?” Greyback took a step forward. “Why don’t you play nice and share for a bit, hm?” he purred.

“Get your own,” Severus growled.

“Alright, alright. Just having a laugh, no need to get shirty. Continue with your… activities,” he leered. “But, honestly, Snape, get a better taste, will yah?”

“Leave,” he snarled.

“Alright, alright!” Greyback threw his arms in the air. “We’re leaving.”

Greyback ushered his cronies away from their camp site.

Severus inwardly sighed in relief.

"Oh, and Snape?" he called over his shoulder. "In case you haven't received the message because you’ve been busy dicking around, Harry Potter is alive."

His breath caught at his throat. "What?" he breathed incredulously.

"Yeah. You know Rookwood? The Unspeakable at the Department of Mysteries? He went down to the Hall of Prophecy to study the glass they use to record prophecies and saw the orb glowing ‒ the one about the Dark Lord and Harry Potter. The Dark Lord said it's a sign that the brat is alive. We've been trying to generate some possible pictures of what he would look like now based on the Potters'."

"I see." It was a wonder his voice didn't crack. But shock must have been plain on his face.

"Yeah, unbelievable, innit? How he lived through whatever off'ed the Dark Lord…" he shook his head in disbelief. "The Boy Who Lived. That's what we've been calling him among ourselves. The Dark Lord gets… antsy when he hears the name Harry Potter," he whispered loudly, and cackled.

"Anyways, you know what Lily and James Potter looked like, Snape. If you see one has a resemblance, capture and report, yeah?"

He nodded stiffly.

As soon as they were sure they were out of earshot of the Snatchers, and after Severus cast another succession of protective wards, Smith rounded on him. “You’re one of them?!”

“In a way,” Snape said slowly. “It is not so simple. This is not as it seems.”

“What is there to deny?! You have the Mark, and you said that His followers have that tattoo! And even if I didn’t know that, seeing you all chummy with that hairy bloke and them practically worshipping you after you showed them your arm is enough.”

Smith shuddered and took a step back.

“All this time, you were deceiving me and deluding me with all this talk of my family when… when you were actually leading me to your master?” He shot Severus a look of betrayal. “Why? What do they even want me for? Because I’m… because I’m a half-blood? Oh God, is that even true? Did you make up all those stories about you and my mum? Did you even know my parents?”

“Of course I did,” Severus tried to keep his tone even. “In case you haven’t noticed, I didn’t gleefully hand you over to them. I changed your appearance so that they wouldn’t recognise you. I have no intention of killing you or aiding in your death. If I were truly interested, I would have done it the night we set out together to relieve myself of your appalling snoring.”

Smith still eyed him warily. “Maybe you just wanted the glory to yourself!”

“I do not ‒”

“Why now? Why search for me now after all these years?”

He wanted to ask Dumbledore that very question.

“We didn’t know you were alive. I didn’t even know you were alive until I met you in the pub.”

“But what if I’m not who you think I am? What if I’m just a random orphan who happens to look like your arch-nemesis with green eyes?”

“First, Potter was not my arch-nemesis. He was no more than a pompous annoyance who thought that the rules by which the rest of us abided were beneath him. Second, if there are more people who look like James Potter, we are doomed,” he tried again, appealing to Smith’s sense of humour to bail him out.

"And what's this talk about the orb? What is it? And they knew I was alive because it bloody glowed? Does every wizard and witch have their own personal orb that glows and dims depending on whether you’re alive?"

“No.”

Severus briefly closed his eyes.

He had to tell him. He should have told him ages ago.

“Around twenty years ago, during the First Wizarding War, there was a prophecy. A prophecy that said a child born to those who had thrice defied him at the end of July would vanquish the Dark Lord.”

“And I’m the one,” he said slowly.

“Yes,” Severus said with difficulty.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. You said you were found on the streets at the end of October or early November. Your family was attacked on Halloween, and your body was never found. And there is no doubt that you are James and Lily Potter’s son.”

“And they defied him three times, and I was born at the end of July?”

“Thirty-first July.”

“Well, I’ve been celebrating the wrong birthday, then.” Smith let out a bark of laughter. But there was no humour in it.

“You’re telling me I have to fight the most dangerous wizard alive because there’s a prophecy about me?”

It did sound ridiculous. Severus could not find the words.

“When were you going to tell me this?” he shouted. “When we got to Hogwarts? When we’re saying ‘hi’ to Voldemort face-to-face?”

“I was going to tell you when you were ready.”

“When is that?!” he cried. “How am I‒” he clenched his jaw and ran a hand over his hair. He looked overwhelmed. Then again, who wouldn’t be.

“You’re going to toss me aside when we get to Hogwarts, aren’t you? Mission accomplished, you brought the prophecy child, and you can go along your merry way.”

“I have no intention to do so.”

“But you were lying to me all this time.”

Severus had nothing to say to that.

Smith chuckled bitterly. “Fuck this. Fuck everything.”

“Smith! Wait‒”

The man jerked away with a disgusted look on his face. Severus felt his stomach twist at the sheer revulsion in his eyes.

“Get away from me,” Smith snarled.

“I shouldn’t have kept it from you, but ‒”

“But what? You just forgot to mention the vital bit of information that where you’re taking me I’ll have to face this maniac that I hardly have a chance of winning against?”

“That’s why I’ve been training you.”

Realisation dawned on his face. Then rage twisted his features.

“Oh that’s why. That’s why. Of course,” he laughed. “Why else would you put yourself through this misery of walking and camping and sleeping rough for more than nine weeks with a stranger? Of bloody course.”

“If you drop the histrionics and let me‒”

“DON’T!” he bellowed. “Don’t come anywhere near me. I don’t want to see your lying face, you fucking, fucking prick.”

Then he stormed out of the tent, his magic dangerously crackling around him like a charge of electricity ready to unleash its energy.

CRACK.

Startled, he rushed out. Had the Snatchers come back?

When he was outside the tent, what he found instead was… nothing. No one.

No Snatchers with their Ward-Disablers.

No Smith.

He spun around again, looking everywhere, panic rising in his chest.

Nothing. Smith was nowhere to be seen.

His thoughts raced, wheels frantically turning.

Then it clicked. Smith’s accidental magic. Apparition.

Absolute terror swept over him.

Where did he go? And what if he were caught by Snatchers? Or worse still, what if some Death Eaters found him and connected the dots from Smith’s uncanny resemblance to James Potter? The Polyjuice would wear off soon… Surely they would take him straight to Voldemort.

What scared him most wasn’t the fear of being discovered as a spy should Smith reveal his name, but fear for Smith’s life. He had learned an impressive amount of defensive magic in their weeks together, but he would be no match for a group of Death Eaters…

A tiny part deep inside of him wished that Smith would run away – leave Britain and never come back, for his own safety.

He roamed the vicinity, keeping alert for any sound or movement, but nothing.

As the hours passed, Severus’s fear became searing panic.

Should he Apparate to Hogwarts and confess to Dumbledore that he had found the boy, only to lose him in a forest full of Snatchers once they were days away from the safety of Hogwarts? Or go to Petunia and demand her blood for the Blood Trace Potion? He could always take it by force if she refused…

What would become of Smith if Severus could not find him before someone else did?

What if, in the face of reality – of the Snatchers and Death Eaters and dark wizards – Smith finally realised the gravity of what he’d gotten himself into by following Severus, and fled? It was the best outcome he could imagine.

It was hard to decide if what he felt was relief or fear.

But in the end, it was a mixture of hope and dread that Smith might come back that spurred his legs. He did not Apparate.

He walked.

He was a fool.

~*~

He was careful to skitter around the edge of towns. For news. If Smith was found by the Snatchers or Death Eaters, the Dark Lord would surely make it public and wreak enough havoc to draw the attention of the Muggle press?

If not, then that was a relief of its own.

~*~

It had been two days since Smith had fled…

The silence and solitude were disturbing, to say the least.

Severus found himself subjected to nightmares, both old and new. He continued to have familiar dreams of James Potter taunting him, the Dark Lord torturing him, watching the Dark Lord torture and kill. The new ones were a torture of their own: Lily blaming him and crying from grief that her son was lost, of Smith kissing him – a kiss that would start sweet and turn savage – while he muttered, “You’ll be the death of me,” over and over in his ears as his warm hands roamed Severus’s body as they had on the day he disappeared.

He could not find enough will in him to cook the way he had before Smith fled. It all seemed futile and pointless, and a loaf of bread or a piece of fruit seemed perfectly adequate to satisfy his unfelt hunger.

His footsteps were dragged and sluggish.

His lackluster eyes didn’t take in the scenery before him. It all looked the same to him without Smith marveling at its beauty.

The day felt too long, and the night even longer.

Silence stretched, and stretched, and he could only distantly wonder how he had endured those days in his potions lab in silence, with only his cauldrons and ingredients for company.

Even in the cool evening, he felt suffocated.

What afflicted him more was his mind, his traitorous mind, which conjured Smith’s voice and proposed what he might say.

He felt himself precipitously spiraling downwards into a pit of insanity as the silence grew deeper and the clusters of Smith’s comments in his mind stretched further away.

He stared into the ceiling of the tent. The silence pounded against his eardrums. Millions of thoughts cluttered his mind, entangled and spinning out of control. It was ridiculous. He was an Occlumens, for Merlin’s sake.

A ball of light burst into the tent, and Severus scrambled up, wand in hand.

The light transformed into a majestic stag, gleaming with silvery mist. It looked strangely gentle despite its impressive antlers.

Then a voice spoke, and Severus hadn't realised he missed it so much until he heard it.

"Severus?"

Severus thought he had finally gone insane. He was yearning for Smith and his smiles and his voice so much that he had begun hallucinating and hearing things.

He laughed. Merlin, when had he sunk so low?

“Severus?” the light prompted again.

“Be gone!” he shouted. “Leave me.”

He lashed out his arms, wand in hand.

Should he take a Wit-Sharpening Potion to clear away these delusions? How was one to get rid of the mind’s tricks?

The stag faded away.

“No. No…” His lips trembled. “Come back,” he whispered. “Come back,” he pleaded into the air.

But nothing.

He buried his face in his hands. A dry sob escaped him.

~*~

By the next evening, he had downed at least two Wit-Sharpening Potions. He also wondered if it was his insomnia and the consequent sleep deprivation that had led to the hallucination.

He absent-mindedly set up the tent again. He didn’t know what kept him going anymore. He should just Apparate back to Hogwarts, to Dumbledore, and confess his abysmal failure to keep the young man safe.

He was assembling the tent with magic when he saw something flicker in the corner of his eye.

It was the silvery stag again.

This time, it radiated with so much light. Surely a hallucination or a figment of his imagination could not construct such blinding light that it hurt his eyes to gaze at it?

It carefully trotted towards him; each hoof that touched the ground drew a whiff of silvery smoke around it.

Then, through his squinty vision, he saw a figure approaching a few steps behind the stag.

His heart hammered against his chest, and Severus took a hesitant step forward.

It was Smith.

Alarm, doubt, and suspicion that this might not actually be Smith all dissipated at the sight of him as he approached looking haggard, like the apparition haunting his nightmares. Since Smith had done a runner, Severus had dreamed each night of the young man, exhausted and defenseless, standing before the business end of a Death Eater's wand, putting on a front of false bravado, while Severus stood by helpless, not fast enough – his body like lead and his limbs weighed down – to stop the green jet of light.

Severus was crushed into a tight hug.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Smith frantically chanted in his ear.

Oh thank Merlin. Severus found himself returning the embrace with equal, if not greater, intensity. He buried his face in the man’s hair, breathing in the familiar scent.

He was alive. And safe.

It only occurred to him after a second, and Severus wrenched away from the embrace to quickly cast a Revealing Charm to check if there was Polyjuice or some other deceptive magic afoot. There was not. Strangely, his heart seemed to speed up, but that would not stop him from reading this man the riot act.

“You imbecile! You half-witted dolt!” he spat. “Do you have any idea how reckless and dangerous that was? What on earth possessed you to run off like that on your own when there are Death Eaters and Snatchers on the loose?!”

“Yes, yes, I missed you too.”

Severus shot him a withering look. “How did you find your way?”

“Well, I remembered you telling me you can send messages through a Patronus, so I tried… It took me a day to conjure a corporeal one, but once I did, I told it to slow down and I followed it, and it led me here.”

So it was indeed Smith’s voice he was hearing from the silvery stag. He had not gone insane.

Smith collapsed onto the floor, his limbs all splayed apart.

“I walked for two hours straight,” he groaned.

“Where did you go?”

“Well, when I ran out, really pissed, I just wanted to get away from you. And that was all I could think about, and I think my magic did it. I managed to sneak around here and there. I think I stumbled upon some wizarding village because suddenly I was seeing a lot of people dressed up like you.”

“You roamed around like that when you know the Death Eaters are hunting you?” he asked in disbelief. The man’s sheer luck was preposterous.

Smith shot him a pointed look. “No, no. I’m not that stupid,” he said. “Of course I did an intense Glamour Charm on myself. And I know how not to draw attention on myself. One thing about getting picked on is you learn how to slink away from the spotlight and avoid attention… I’ve been reading and hearing the news from the wizarding world.”

Severus could only imagine what atrocities he had directly or indirectly heard of and witnessed over the past few days.

“He really must be stopped, Severus. What he’s doing – it’s awful. I mean, I thought he was insane when I heard about things he had done from you, but actually seeing the impact of everything he’s done… Christ.”

“And if there really is a prophecy or some divine words that chose me to do the job of ridding this world of him and stopping what he started, then…” he swallowed. He lifted his gaze. There was resolution in those eyes. “I’ll do it.”

Trust Smith to spend the time away renewing his resolve to face the Dark Lord instead of making a hasty escape.

It was as if self-preservation was simply absent in the man’s genes. But then again, what else could he expect from the child of a man who stood up to the Dark Lord alone and a woman who died defending her son?

“But, what if I’m not Harry Potter? Are…are you…” His gaze turned to the ground, and he looked vulnerable. “Are you going to leave me behind if I’m not…him?”

Severus swallowed thickly. “Don’t be absurd,” he said. “You still are a wizard with great potential. If you are not Harry Potter, then you can still study at Hogwarts. Perhaps I’ll have you marking my students’ essays after all.”

The mental image of having Smith in his classroom marking assignments while Severus brewed potions made him feel warm. Smith would gently chuckle at the students’ ridiculous mistakes while Severus would tell him to be strict in his marking. After their day was done, they would retire to their rooms. Or their room.

Severus quickly dispelled the thought.

Smith weakly smiled. “Then you’ll berate me for being too lenient, or for missing errors entirely.”

“Yes,” Severus replied softly.

~*~

Their lessons acquired an edge of desperation as the magnitude and urgency of the matter was out in the open.

Smith stopped asking after Transfiguration and Potions and other branches of magic that would not give him much advantage in a duel.

At night, Severus would see Smith jotting down the spells they had practiced so far, muttering furiously under his breath and revising wand movements.

Along with spells, Severus taught him how to duel – the stance and the footwork.

Smith was an apt pupil - no, an extraordinary pupil - once he set his mind to it.

There was another layer to it all – the desire to survive.

“I’m not gonna have this insane racist, or blood-discriminator – fuck, whatever you call it – stop me from learning how to fly on a broom. Or teleport. Or other amazing things you can do with magic,” he said with determination.

To hell with the prophecy. Severus would be at his side fighting the Dark Lord. He was not about to stand there and watch this man face the Dark Lord alone.

~*~

As each day passed, they were closer to Hogwarts.

"You're being grumpy."

"I am always like this."

"Well, yes, but you've been more grumpy for the past few days. I thought you'd be happier now that we’re so close to Hogwarts. No more cold ground, no more using the bushes as a loo. Your private quarters, your potions lab…"

Yes, yes. It would be heavenly to sleep in his own bed again. To be in his own room. To have his potions ingredients and equipment at hand. To eat proper meals prepared by the Hogwarts house-elves.

But he would lose the dynamic he had cultivated with Smith. Severus knew it would change. He'd known for quite a long time.

They would no longer be in each other's company almost constantly. And there would be other people – younger people. They would each go their own way, separate.

He'd no longer wake to the man's soft snoring. He'd no longer fall asleep listening to the man's voice murmuring thoughts and questions or his gentle breathing. He'd no longer have a warm hand to shake him awake from his nightmares; instead, he'd be psychologically dependent on Dreamless Sleep once again.

He'd no longer have the man beside him throughout the day. He'd no longer eat his meals while listening to the man griping about how British food is abysmal.

It would be different.

Once they were off this road, the magic of their journey would be gone.

He had to accept it. But that didn't mean he had to welcome it.

If his reaction to Smith’s three-day absence was anything to go by, he doubted he would cope admirably once they arrived at Hogwarts and the responsibility of watching over the young man was no longer his concern.

Severus knew he couldn't blame him for the impending change. Smith didn't deserve to be subjected to his sullen moods.

~*~

Severus cast a Tempus Charm. Classes would be in session at this hour, so there would be no need to avoid a roaming crowd.

Making their way to the Hog’s Head Inn was stressful, to say the least. There were Death Eaters lurking in the streets in Hogsmeade, and, to Severus’s dismay, when they saw him and Polyjuiced Smith, they simply leered and cat called. Especially when they headed towards the Hog’s Head.

He had expected Greyback to blabber about everything he’d seen. The animal could not keep his snout shut.

Severus had to tug along an overwhelmed Smith, who gawked at everything, from the moving and speaking portraits to the ever-changing staircases and passing ghosts.

“Lemon Drop,” he barked.

The gargoyle remained still.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake!”

Severus went through a litany of sweet names, until finally the gargoyle sprang to life and hopped aside at “Cauldron Cakes.”

The wall split in two and, behind the wall, a staircase appeared. Severus stepped onto it and beckoned Smith. He cautiously followed suit and gripped Severus’s arm as the staircase spiraled upwards.

“Oh my god,” Smith breathed. “Architectural magic. Whoa.”

When they finally reached the top, Severus shoved open the gleaming oak door and stormed inside.

Dumbledore was sitting behind an enormous claw-footed desk and did not look surprised at all by the sight of Severus and Smith charging into his office.

“Ah, Severus. Aberforth told me of your passage through his pub.” Dumbledore tilted his head to address Smith, who was marveling at every ornament in his office. “Harry.”

It took a split second for Smith to figure out that he was being addressed. He flinched and said, “Sorry, sir. I’m still not used to that name.”

“Which one do you prefer, then?”

“Evan, sir. Evan Smith.”

Dumbledore smiled. “I see. I am Professor Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts.”

There was a soft trill, and Smith turned his face to the sound and approached a golden perch.

The blasted bird was looking more atrocious than usual. It looked like a half-plucked turkey. It was probably a Burning Day.

Smith was staring at the bird with morbid fascination when it burst into flames. With a yell, Smith backed away and into the desk. He frantically looked around, probably for a glass of water. The bird gave another dreadful shriek and crumbled into ashes. Merlin, it had a flair for dramatics.

“Oh my god,” Smith whispered, traumatised. He whipped his head towards Dumbledore and Severus as if to ask, “Surely you must do something?”

He looked stunned when Dumbledore merely smiled.

“Fawkes is a phoenix, Mr. Smith. Phoenixes burst into flames when it is time for them to die, and are then reborn from the ashes. Watch him…”

Smith peered down in time to see a tiny, wrinkled, newborn bird poke its head out of the ashes. To Severus, it looked as ugly as the old one.

“How on earth do you get feathers from phoenixes to make wand cores when they’re like… that?”

“Oh, he’s really very handsome most of the time, wonderful red and gold plumage,” he replied cheerfully. “I see Severus has been telling you different materials we use to make wands.”

“Uhm, sort of. My wand has a phoenix feather core.”

Dumbledore leaned in with twinkling eyes. “Does it? Where did you get your wand, Mr. Smith?”

“France. At Madam Benoit’s.”

“Ah, Fawkes has been supplying his feathers to wandcrafters in Britain and France, you see. It is highly possible that your wand core came from Fawkes.”

Smith now looked impressed as he stared at the ugly ball of ashes.

The door creaked open and Professors McGonagall, Sprout, and Flitwick strolled in.

They all stopped dead when they saw Smith.

“Merlin, is this–?” Sprout breathed.

“There’s always been a rumor that he survived, but…” Flitwick squeaked.

“Merlin’s beard, Severus, where have you been?” Minerva asked, her eyes sweeping over his haggard state with disbelief.

“I asked Severus to brew the Blood Trace Potion for me to find Harry Potter, who now goes by the name of Evan Smith. It seems he succeeded in his search.”

“You found me through that potion?” Smith asked him, surprised.

“No. It was pure coincidence that I met you in that pub.”

“Oh, wow,” said Smith. “It’s like we were meant to be.” He flashed him a grin.

Minerva’s eyebrows shot up to her forehead as she watched their interaction. He inwardly groaned. No doubt she would ask about this, the busybody.

“I requested your presence tonight because, now that Voldemort has learned that Mr Smith is alive, his presence here must be kept secret.”

“How on earth is he supposed to hide from throngs of students, Albus? This is a school. A boarding school,” said Minerva.

Dumbledore unlocked one of his many drawers with a flick of his wand. “Your father left his Invisibility Cloak in my care, Evan. It is time I returned it to its rightful owner.” He produced a shining, silvery cloth, neatly folded. Smith accepted it with awe and gratitude written all over his face.

“Now, I must ask you all to leave. Minerva, would you kindly show Mr. Smith to his quarters?”

“Where?” Minerva asked, baffled. “We cannot put him in a dormitory, Albus. The students–”

“There is a room on seventh floor that would be suited for Mr. Smith. I believe the house-elves call it the Come and Go Room, or the Room of Requirement. There is a stretch of blank wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy’s attempt to train trolls for the ballet,” said Dumbledore. “Walk past said wall three times, concentrating hard on what you need, Mr. Smith, and a bed, a kitchen, anything that you can imagine, you will find inside.”

“I have never heard of this room,” said Minerva skeptically. Dumbledore gave her a placating smile.

“I discovered the room by accident. I took a wrong turn on the way to the bathroom and found myself in a beautifully proportioned room I had never seen before, containing a really rather magnificent collection of chamber pots.”

Smith stared at Dumbledore dubiously. “Er, so I’m to stay in a room full of chamber pots?”

“No, no, my boy. It is quite a wonderful room. It will transform itself into whatever you need it to be.”

Smith nodded slowly. Minerva moved to usher him away.

“Severus, will you stay behind, please?”

A look of panic flickered across Smith’s face. Severus gave him a nod; it was the only reassurance he could offer. But apparently that was enough, as Smith relaxed and followed Minerva, Sprout, and Flitwick out of the headmaster’s office.

The door shut with an ominous thud, and Dumbledore flicked his wand at the entrance, casting protective wards.

The twinkling in his eyes vanished as Dumbledore stared intently at him.

“Now, tell me everything.”

Severus told him everything from start to finish, censoring only the kisses and the bits about how he was clearly losing his mind.

“He can talk to snakes, Dumbledore. Is the Potter line related to Slytherin? I know the Dark Lord claims he is the last.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes, furrowing his eyebrows as if he were in pain. Something akin to resolution crossed his face.

“I’ll unbind you from your oath as I promised, Severus.”

When he finally heard the words he had been longing to hear for years, it wasn't joy he was feeling.

“Is it wise of you to unbind me now? The situation has never been direr.”

“Severus, my boy, there is good in you, even though you deceive others and yourself into thinking there isn’t. Once the oath is dissolved, you will see for yourself that it was never required.”

“Yes, yes, you never tire of reminding me,” he said grudgingly.

Dumbledore placed the tip of his wand on Severus’ right arm. Severus gasped softly as the wand lifted; golden strings emerged out of his skin and merged into a shape of a phoenix that spread its bright wings. With a haunting trill, it disappeared into thin air.

He let out a heavy sigh.

The oath was gone.

But the weight on his chest did not ease.

“So he… he really is Potter, then?”

Something lurched in his stomach as the shred of hope he’d been foolish enough to cling to shattered.

“Surely you knew he was Harry Potter when you decided to bring him here?” he said.

He was quite sure. There was no denying that Smith was related to James Potter. But he could not be – did not want to be – absolutely certain.

But in the beginning he hadn’t cared about the man’s true identity; he hadn’t cared if he was really Potter as long as he could demonstrate to Dumbledore that he had accomplished his task – held up his end of the bargain – and obtain his freedom.

Somewhere along the trip, in the midst of walking under the sun and enjoying the breeze, of Smith’s chatter filling the silence, and his constant, but not overbearing, presence, Severus had begun to hope against all odds that Smith was not actually Harry Potter.

No matter what the prophecy said about how Potter would vanquish the Dark Lord, it was still a fate that he did not want the man to face. Kill or be killed: both outcomes were grim.

“We will be performing a Heredity Test on him tomorrow, to make sure, but you’ve seen how much he resembles James. And he has Lily’s eyes.”

Severus nodded numbly.

“You must be exhausted from the trip. Rest, Severus. I will call an Order meeting here tomorrow. We shall address our course of action then.”

~*~

That night, when he lay in his own bed in his private quarters for first time in months, it was disconcertingly quiet.

No sound of a breeze rustling the leaves while Smith tossed and turned and occasionally mumbled in his sleep. It was very much like the jarring silence he had endured during Smith’s three-day absence.

He tried convincing himself that he welcomed the separation after being relieved of his duty and Smith’s constant presence.

Of course, he welcomed the chance to sleep in his own bed once more. He didn’t have to suffer the awkward moments of trudging into the bush to relieve himself, or stand aloof while Smith found his own bush. The immediate danger and fear of the Snatchers no longer loomed over their shoulders and haunted them at night. Except for the threat of the Dark Lord.

Severus wondered what Smith was thinking now. Was he overwhelmed to be surrounded by Hogwarts’s magic? Did it live up to his expectations? Were Severus’s descriptions vivid enough?

His heart skipped a beat when a thought struck him. What if Smith thought Severus had washed his hands of him – abandoned him now that they were here?

He felt restless.

Severus forced himself to close his eyes and empty his mind.

Tomorrow.

~*~

The test affirmed it; Evan Smith was indeed Harry Potter.

Once it was confirmed, Dumbledore called in Black, reintroducing the man to his godson.

When Black walked into the room and set his eyes on Smith, he looked as if he had seen a ghost. Severus almost growled in frustration. Smith might resemble James Potter, but he was not his identical twin. There were obvious differences. Severus could not bear to look at Black strutting around with Smith at his side, acting as if he had his best friend back.

Lupin, Severus was annoyed to note, was taking the whole thing in stride.

Smith stood awkwardly, his right hand around his left arm, his shoulders scrunched.

“Oh, Merlin,” Black breathed, his eyes moist. “Harry… you look so much like James. And your eyes…”

Smith’s gaze darted away. “Yeah, my mum’s eyes. Severus told me.”

Black visibly bristled, but shook it off.

“I’m your godfather, Harry.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So, if you want to know anything about Lily and James – stories or anything – you can ask me. Or Remus,” he smiled at his friend. “You don’t have to hear it from Snape anymore.” He worked to keep his tone light, for Smith’s sake, but he shot a hateful glare in Snape’s direction for good measure.

“I liked hearing stories about my mum from him,” Smith mumbled, casting a cursory glance at Severus’s direction.

“But I bet he didn’t say a word about James.” Black jeered at Severus.

Smith eyed Severus carefully. “Uhm, not really. No.”

Black swung an arm around Smith’s shoulders, letting out a bark of cruel laughter. Smith flinched, and then weakly smiled. “Wait till you hear about all the pranks your dear father unleashed on this school when he was here.”

Black and Lupin exchanged grins as if sharing an inside joke.

Severus rolled his eyes.

He didn’t have to see this. See Black and Lupin conspiring together to twist Smith into James Potter redux.

Severus stormed out.

~*~

It was exactly as he’d expected.

Although, to prevent exposure, Smith could not freely roam the school, he was often whisked away by Dumbledore to make the acquaintance of the Weasleys, Hagrid, and other Order members. The youngest Weasley children met with Smith and introduced him to Exploding Snap and other youthful frivolities. The Weasley girl stared at Smith with star-struck eyes every time he was in the vicinity. Contemptible tart.

There were very few instances in which Severus was able to see Smith during the Order meetings. Severus would occupy his usual spot in the corner, and Smith stood by Dumbledore. Their eyes would meet, and Smith would inch towards him, but soon be deterred by Kingsley or Tonks as they offered some distraction.

His yearning reached an almost palpable level, and he wondered when he had become such a sap.

“Severus!”

He froze.

It was Smith. Smith, who should be in his quarters or Dumbledore’s office or anywhere that was not an open corridor.

“How have you been doing?”

“Fine,” he said tersely. “What are you doing out here?”

Smith smiled sheepishly. “Okay, I know I shouldn’t show my face everywhere, but I’m sick of being locked up.”

“Your presence must remain secret.”

He could not have the man be exposed to or seen by his Snakes or other Death Eater offspring.

“I know, I know. But, listen, I was wondering if you could help me practice,” said Smith.

“Practice what, exactly?”

“Dueling.”

Severus eyed him incredulously. “You’ve been spending time with Aurors. Surely you can practice with them? Tonks is, despite her deadly clumsiness, quite a competent Auror. And Kingsley is trained with years of field experience.”

“Uhm. I haven’t been dueling with them. We usually talk… about the wizarding world. And what their jobs are like.”

“What?” he asked shortly.

“Yeah. So can we duel sometime? I miss practicing magic with you,” said Smith. “Actually, I miss spending time with you.” He stared at Severus. “You haven’t been avoiding me, have you?”

Avoiding him? What an absurd accusation.

It was Smith who was busy all the time, who could not spare his time for Severus.

“Please, Severus? I miss you.”

His face was terribly honest. Smith could not possibly mean it. All the spotlight and attention must have got to him, and he just wanted one person who wouldn’t fawn over him like that.

“I will… see to it.”

Smith’s answering smile was blinding.

~*~

Severus stormed toward Dumbledore’s office. He barked, “Cauldron Cakes!” and waited impatiently for the gargoyle to move aside and the doors to part, revealing the spiral staircase. Everything seemed to move painfully slowly.

Once his way was clear, Severus tore up the already-moving spiral staircase. He slammed open the doors to the headmaster’s office and rushed inside.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Good evening to you, too, Severus,” said Dumbledore, his voice infuriatingly calm.

Severus stalked up to his desk and slammed his hands down on the wooden surface.

“What are you doing?” he repeated. “Every minute, every second counts before he faces the Dark Lord, and you’re wasting time whisking the boy away to pay calls.”

Dumbledore sighed, plucked his half-moon spectacles from his nose, and gently laid them beside an inkwell.

“He must become attached to this world, Severus. How can you expect this young man to step up to save a world he has never known, in which he is not invested?”

Severus let out a bark of laughter. It sounded ugly even to his own ears. “He doesn’t need to have an attachment to do that,” Severus spat. “He’s a righteous fool who would readily risk his life if it meant saving others.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes. “But what we must ask of him… it is a task that calls for more than bravery.”

“What? He is more or less prepared – surely he won’t be fighting the Dark Lord alone. We will be there with him,” he said, baffled.

“There is more to it then that, Severus.”

He felt a sense of foreboding upon hearing Dumbledore’s words.

“You have led the boy this far; as such, I think you have the right to know this.”

“Know what?” he asked in a low voice, curiosity piqued and panic rising

Dumbledore beckoned him. “Come, sit.”

Severus eyed him suspiciously. “No, I’d rather stand,” he refused.

“Very well.”

Dumbledore drew in a deep breath.

"On the night Lord Voldemort tried to kill him, when Lily cast her own life between them as a shield, the Killing Curse rebounded upon Lord Voldemort, and a fragment of Voldemort’s soul was blasted apart from the whole, and latched itself onto the only living soul left in that collapsing building. Part of Lord Voldemort lives inside Harry, and it is that which gives him the power of speech with snakes, and a connection with Lord Voldemort’s mind. And while that fragment of soul, unmissed by Voldemort, remains attached to and protected by Harry, Lord Voldemort cannot die.”

“So the boy… the boy must die?” Severus asked quietly.

"And Voldemort himself must do it, Severus. That is essential."

“Are there others with the Dark Lord’s soul stuck inside them?”

“No. Harry is the only one. Voldemort created objects to store his soul away as a means to procure immortality, but I have taken care of those. Harry Potter is the only unintentional Horcrux that remains.”

There was a head-splitting ringing in his ears. He could not fully comprehend what Dumbledore was saying, could not believe…

"I thought… that we were protecting him for her. For Lily."

“We have protected him, by letting everyone, including the Dark Lord and his followers, think he is dead. He has lived to adulthood because of their ignorance, Severus.”

“You knew he was alive all this time and… you’ve made me bring him here so that he can die at the right moment?”

“Don’t be shocked, Severus. How many men and women have you watched die?”

“Lately, only those whom I could not save.” He stood up. “You have used me.”

“Meaning?” Dumbledore was infuriatingly calm.

“I have spied for you and lied for you, put myself in mortal danger for you. Everything was supposed to be to keep Lily Potter’s son safe. Even when he was presumed dead, it was to honour her and her son. Now you tell me you had me find him and bring him here like a pig for slaughter–”

“But this is touching, Severus,” said Dumbledore seriously. “Have you grown to care for the young man, after all?”

“Care?” he spat. “I do not care for him. The only thing I feel for him is responsibility. Nothing more.”

“You can be truthful for once, Severus. Who could judge you for being fond of the boy? I certainly do not,” he said gently.

“It is the truth,” he snapped.

Dumbledore’s eyes turned wistful. “I am sorry, my boy.”

He gawked at him in disbelief. “Sorry? I am not the one who should be hearing your apology,” he growled.

Dumbledore’s knowing blue eyes pierced into his own. It was not Legilimency, but his soul felt naked, his feelings plain.

~*~

Curse Smith's Gryffindor stubbornness and bravery.

When he was Smith's age, Severus only remembered being a coward. He hadn’t had half Smith’s courage.

He wished his own self-preservation and cowardice had rubbed off on Smith during their long journey, but he realised it was the other way around. There was no way that his past self would have accepted the death sentence that Smith was facing. He would have stunned his chaperone and fled the country without consent – the fate of the wizarding world be damned.

In all honesty, he still couldn't quite accept it. He refused to believe it.

He’d spent their first month together trying to keep Smith alive for the sake of his freedom, and the next month for entirely different reasons, albeit equally selfish ones. He had kept him alive and trained him and… cared for him.

And now he was supposed to accept the man's death?

Severus buried his face in his palms and let out a shuddering sigh.

He was selfish enough to consider Obliviating Smith of all his memories since meeting him at the pub, and dumping him at a Muggle hospital to be treated for amnesia. And perhaps Obliviating everyone who knew of Smith's existence as well. If he thought he could have pulled it off, he would have done it – tucked Smith away back in the Muggle world, back in France, alone again, but safely anonymous and unaware of his past once more.

He kept making excuses not to show up to their practice sessions.

A part of him wanted to avoid looking at Smith. If he stared into those green eyes, he doubted he could keep the words inside him that were screaming and ripping his insides apart, trying to get out. You will die. You have to die. Run, run, run, run –

Another part of him wanted to see Smith, drinking in the sight of him as much as he could while it lasted. But it would be torture. To see Smith and his innocence and obliviousness. To see his trust towards Severus when he was hiding this awful truth.

When he saw Smith in passing in the Order meetings, Severus avoided Smith’s hurt gaze.

He was a coward.

~*~

Black nattered on and on about James Potter and their years at Hogwarts, gallivanting around.

Severus gritted his teeth and did his utmost to ignore him. He tried to focus on what Kingsley was saying about Auror reinforcement, but his eyes kept darting back to Smith.

Black and Lupin had the so-called Marauder’s Map splayed out in front of them, and were taking turns pointing out to Smith the sections of the school that contained secret passageways and other novelties. It was the only way Smith could vicariously experience Hogwarts and the memories of his father without risking exposure.

“I really wish I could see it,” said Smith with a longing sigh.

“You will, Harry. We can definitely smuggle you out of the Order meetings under the Invisibility Cloak.” He laughed and ruffled up Smith’s hair. Smith turned faintly pink, practically glowing under Black’s open affections.

Severus could not bear to look. This man was supposed to be Smith’s godfather, his guardian. Did he care nothing for the safety of his charge?

It had taken Black a few days to be able to hide his overwhelming guilt when he was in Smith's presence. Severus was there when Black had finally broken under the weight of his regret.

“If only I hadn’t told James and Lily to change their Secret Keeper to Pettigrew…” Black buried his face in his hands. He emanated guilt. It was too close to home.

Severus was disturbed, to say the least, to have found himself on common ground with the mutt.

Smith was too merciful, too forgiving. He spoke all the words of comfort and absolution that Black so desperately needed to hear.

“It’s not your fault, Sirius. If anything, it’s Pettigrew who betrayed your trust as well as my parents’. And it’s Voldemort who killed them. Not you.”

Smith's kind words seemed to act like balm on his wounds, for Black quickly returned, or appeared to return, to his old, infuriatingly exuberant, self.

He grudgingly admitted Black adored Smith in his own way, however mixed his feelings for the young man were with the regrettable fate of his parents.

Black suddenly fell silent, his laughter dying, breaking Severus away from his thoughts.

“Merlin,” he breathed. “Moony, is that – is that Wormtail?” his voice took on a dangerous edge as he spoke.

Lupin’s eyes followed Black’s finger. His face tightened. “It is.”

They both shot up from their seats. The Order members who had been sitting close enough to overhear their conversation also scrambled to their feet with their wands drawn.

Smith stared at them in confusion. “What? What’s Wormtail?”

They were already rushing out. “Wormtail is the bastard who betrayed your parents to Voldemort,” Black called over his shoulder.

Lupin turned to them. “Pettigrew is on the seventh floor, heading toward the staircase. He must be in his rat form, so keep a weather eye out.”

“Stay here, Harry. It is vital that he doesn’t find out you’re here,” said Kingsley.

“If he hasn’t already,” said Severus. The eavesdropping rat might already have learned of Smith’s presence.

~*~

After an hour of pursuit, during which spells flew wildly through the air as the Order tried to contain and stun a rat-sized target, it was Lupin who caught Pettigrew.

“We can’t let him move,” said Lupin, panting from the exertion of the chase. “We cannot let him alert Voldemort.”

They brought him to Dumbledore’s office and tied him to a chair. Severus cast the strongest Body Bind he could think of on him.

“Let me douse him with Veritaserum,” Severus said. “I have it right here.”

“Just feed him to the Dementors,” Black snarled. He looked overwhelmed with rage and hatred. Lupin had his arms around Black’s chest, preventing him from mangling Pettigrew’s frozen body.

“Let me at least punch him in the nose, Moony!” Black shouted.

“Sirius, we need to find out first how much he had overheard and how much he relayed to his master.”

“A broken nose wouldn’t hinder that.”

“Lupin, restrain your dog. We have more pressing issues at hand,” Severus snapped. Out of the corner of his eye, Severus saw Smith lurking in the corner, eyeing Pettigrew’s frozen face with mixture of curiosity and horror.

Severus did not wait for Dumbledore’s permission. He wrenched Pettigrew’s mouth open, unscrewed the cap, and emptied the flask into his mouth.

“What’s your name,” he said shortly.

“Peter Pettigrew,” he replied airily, his eyes staring far away.

“When did you get here and how much have you heard?”

“Today. It took me three days to find a hole in the wards around Hogwarts. I heard Harry Potter is alive. He is at Hogwarts.”

Each head turned slowly towards Smith. He held his chin high, refusing to look scared.

“Does the Dark Lord know about this?”

“No.”

A relieved sigh escaped him.

“But he will find out soon or later,” said Kingsley with a grim face. “What do we do then?”

“We prepare.”

~*~

There was a knock on the door.

Severus stood up in one motion and took out his wand before cautiously approaching the door. Who could it be at this hour?

He flicked his wand and the door swung open, revealing a broken looking Smith.

He looked strangely pale even with his tanned skin, his eyes faintly wet and red around the edges, and shocked to his core.

He weakly smiled at Severus. "Hi."

"What are you doing–?"

"Can I come in?" he blurted. "Please?"

He was oddly restless; a panicked look kept flickering across his face.

With a sickening lurch, Severus realised Dumbledore had finally told the man of his fate.

"Mr. Smith–"

"Evan," he interrupted. "Everyone's been calling me either Harry or Potter ever since I came here, and I'm still not used to it. Can't you call me Evan for once before I…" he trailed off.

“Face the most powerful dark wizard of our time?”

“Yeah, thanks for clearing that up,” he chuckled. It sounded forced. “Can I come in?” he asked again.

His throat felt too tight. He nodded.

Smith crossed the threshold and stepped into his quarters. He looked around with a small smile.

“This is so you,” he said. “Dark. Organised. Efficient.”

It was surreal to have Smith standing in middle of his private room. He stuck out like an odd piece of a puzzle, and all he wanted to do was pluck him out and find the right place for him.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yeah,” he nodded.

While he prepared the cups, Smith shuffled to the settee and flopped down.

“What would you do if you knew you were going to die?”

Severus flinched. For all he knew of the man, he should have expected such frankness, but it still caught him off guard.

“You…” he swallowed.

The fiery spirit Smith had inside him seemed to have been extinguished by the knowledge that death was so close. So certain.

The reality of the young man, resolved to die, was so different than the vision of the hero the prophecy painted.

“Why won’t you run?” he asked. It sounded like pleading. “Are you that eager to die?”

Smith shot up. "Of course I want to live! You think I'm brave and selfless enough to want to die? I want to live. I just discovered this world and I want to live in it and explore it!” he shouted. He looked at Severus desperately as if he was the one who didn’t understand. “I don’t want to die when I only just met you– " he stopped dead, torment twisting his features. Smith was breathing hard, his eyes ablaze with an emotion so fierce Severus could not decipher it.

He scrunched his eyes shut, looking defeated. “But people will die if he’s not stopped,” Smith whispered.

“You don’t owe these people. Magic won’t disappear if you don’t defeat Voldemort.”

“As I said, people will die.”

“All lives must come to an end at some point. Death occurs even at this moment. Accept that others are responsible for their own deaths, and you are responsible for your own life.”

If he were allowed, Severus would have said it right there and then: flee, be selfish for once. Live.

“People will die because of me. Because I didn’t stop him when I could.”

Severus set his jaw. “So you will sacrifice your life for these people you’ve never met.”

“Hey, it’s my life for hundreds of Muggle-borns and half-bloods. That’s a pretty good deal.”

No, it is not, he snarled inwardly. He did not care for the lives of wizards and witches he did not know. He cared for one life, the life in front of him, which he had led to its end.

“Have I taught you nothing of Slytherin self-preservation?”

“Oh, you did. But I think I'm a Gryffindor or a Hufflepuff through and through, don't you?" he said flippantly. "Should have put on the hat just to see where it would put me."

As he stared at Smith’s earnest face he felt something crumble inside him. Every lie he had told him, every word he had bit back, every feeling he had tried and failed to quash – the full force of it felt as if it would crush him under its weight.

The guilt was too much, and he had carried it for too long – had wronged Smith in too many ways.

He had cost this man his life.

This man, who owed the wizarding world nothing, who had only ever been wronged by magic, but who would, nonetheless, sacrifice himself for them just because some fraudulent bint’s voice had gone husky and uttered some forewarning words twenty years ago. Because he was that good – too good by far to bear these false debts.

Indeed, it was Severus himself who owed Smith his life and his sacrifice.

This was his one and only chance to confess his crimes and face his punishment.

“Do you resent me?”

He would not ask for Smith's forgiveness, because he was too kind a creature not to grant it, and Severus knew he didn’t deserve it.

“For what?” he asked. “Oh.”

Severus waited for the axe to fall.

“You didn’t know. Not at the time.”

Severus shook his head. “I knew… I knew that you had to face him from the beginning.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t know I have to… die.”

He was at a loss for words. They came out in broken fragments. “I knew. After we arrived at Hogwarts. The headmaster told me…” Severus stared at the fireplace. “I should have told you. I should have told you to run.”

“But I still would have stayed. I think.”

The truth of the statement was resounding.

“I know you’ve been beating yourself up over this. And, while I admit it was a bit gratifying at first to watch you torture yourself over me, I wish you would stop blaming yourself. It’s not your fault.”

Severus gaped at him.

“And I mean what I said before. I’m glad you were the one who found me. I really am.”

“How can you still say that?” Severus managed to let out.

It was almost unbelievable – how unresentful Smith was.

“I don’t think you really understand it,” said Smith with such an earnest face. “I’ve been living in… fear and doubt that I was this mistake in the world. A mistake that should not have happened. I didn’t understand why I was the way I am when everyone else seemed to be different from me. To be normal. And then you turn up, saying that I’m a wizard, just like you and other people – it’s…” he trailed off. “I finally felt… okay about myself. I finally didn’t need to think how and when I should off myself before I cause any more harm with my weird ability.”

Smith traced the inside of his wrist with his thumb.

“And you telling me I… didn’t cause the accident. That was…” he choked. “I don’t know if I have the right to feel this way, but I felt… forgiven. You have no idea how much it weighed me down, the guilt. All these years, I kept driving myself to the edge, feeling I hadn’t been punished enough for what I’d done. I let that arsehole treat me like shit and do whatever he wanted, because… because I thought I deserved it, for what I thought I had done. And I left her partly because I didn’t want to hurt her, but it was also because I thought I didn’t deserve happiness. That I should deny myself any happiness.

“And yes, any wizard or witch could have told me that, and I might have felt the same way, but you were the one, so there’s no point in speculating what would have happened if it weren’t you. You were the one who told me those things,” he said. “But that’s not all of it. It’s…”

Smith smiled at him.

“It’s the way you get all excited about potions ingredients but try to be all stoic and indifferent. It’s the way you make compliments sound like insults. It’s the way you act all grumpy and uncaring when you actually… care. I mean, it’s frustrating sometimes, but I appreciate it. And, god,” he laughed, “I love your voice. Sometimes I zone out when you talk because your voice has this flow to it, and it’s almost hypnotic. And your robes. I love it when your robes billow.”

Severus stared at him in disbelief.

“I don’t think anything I can say will stop you from punishing yourself, and, anyway, that’s not what I came here for. I… well I came here too… Look, I’m just going to kiss you now, okay?”

It took Severus a moment to register what Smith was actually saying through his rambling.

He continued staring at Smith who, instead of barging in like he expected, just stared back at him, as if waiting for his permission.

Severus’s eyes closed of their own volition.

First it was frantic, lips hungrily seeking contact, tongues delving deeper and deeper as if to push past the body and reach the soul. Smith’s hands felt warm as they cupped his cold face and neck. His body melted into the younger man’s. It was such a welcoming warmth, enveloping him like a cocoon. Smith kept changing the angle of his face, as if he could not get enough access, his tongue roaming over every corner of Severus’s mouth and his lips whispering, “Severus,” between gasps. Much like his nightmare, but so blissfully different.

Then it slowed.

Smith’s lips brushed softly against his, but it felt like his heart was being gently stroked with aching sincerity.

It ached. His chest, his lips, his eyes, they all ached everywhere Smith touched. He could only helplessly grip Smith’s shoulders as his whole body trembled with want. And grief.

It felt like forgiveness.

No. No.

It was the desperation of a human being who knew he was too close to death. Smith was only doing this because his life was ticking away.

But Severus took it. Because he was greedy.

Seconds later, Smith slowly pulled away. His lips were flushed red from blood and friction.

“Okay, I’m going to stop here because I know you’re going to say that I’m being irrational and impulsive, facing the evil Dark Lord and all, which I’m not. I’m not acting impulsively just so I don’t die a virgin, okay? It’s not I’m-going-to-die-tomorrow horniness.”

Smith raised his hand and brushed away the strands of hair on Severus’s face.

“I wish you’d believe me when I say I love you,” he said softly.

That was absurd.

He was confusing his feelings.

Severus opened his mouth to protest, but Smith silenced him with another kiss.

“Not because you’re the first wizard I met. And certainly not because this may be the last time I see you if everything goes wrong.”

Smith leaned forward until his forehead rested on Severus’s shoulder. “Christ, why won’t you believe me? Is it so hard to believe that I am capable of these feelings? I may have Voldemort’s soul stuck inside me, but that doesn’t make me an emotionally constipated psychopath,” he cried.

“I… am not invalidating your emotions. I simply think they are misdirected and you are confused.”

“I’m not, though,” he insisted.

Severus remained silent. He searched for words, but they failed him.

Smith straightened and leaned up to give him a light kiss on the lips.

It felt like a goodbye.

And Severus wanted to reach out and stop him, stop him from going away. But what then? It would only delay. Delay the inevitable.

Smith smiled at him again.

It was so courageous. So brave. But heartbreaking. All Smith had done since he came into his quarters was hurt him with his kindness.

Severus did not know what he was to do. He never knew what he was supposed to do when he stared at those green eyes, especially when they were gazing at him so tenderly.

Then a silvery phoenix materialised between them. Dumbledore’s voice filled the silence: “Come to my office immediately.”

When they stormed to Dumbledore’s office, Mundungus Fletcher was flailing his limbs about.

“He escaped! Pettigrew! He fucking tricked me–”

“I’m so sorry, Harry–” Black croaked, his face contorted in anguish. “I can’t believe the bastard got away…”

Severus knew all too well that Black would only find peace when he saw Pettigrew pay his price.

Rage welled up in his chest. Fletcher had no concept of the magnitude of damage his ineptitude would cause.

“You incompetent fool!” he shouted. “You–”

Words died on his lips as his Mark burned savagely.

The Dark Lord knew. He knew Smith was at Hogwarts.

“Albus–” he rasped, clutching his left arm. “He knows. He knows. ”

Everyone froze.

Minerva was the first to regain her senses.

“We need to gather our students and meet in the Great Hall. Most will be evacuated, though if any of those who are of age wish to stay and fight, I think they ought to be given the chance,” said Minerva.

Dumbledore nodded. “Each Head of the House is to meet us in the Great Hall within an hour with their students. Horace, could you stand in for Severus as Head of Slytherin? I need him with me.”

“My word,” Slughorn puffed, pale and sweaty, his walrus mustache aquiver. “What a to-do! I’m not at all sure whether this is wise, Minerva. He is bound to find a way in, you know, and anyone who has tried to delay him will be in most grievous peril -”

“If you wish to leave with your students, we shall not stop you. But if any of you attempt to sabotage our resistance or take up arms against us within this castle, then, Horace, we duel to kill.”

“Minerva!” he said, aghast.

“The time has come for Slytherin House to decide upon its loyalties,” she interrupted. “Go and wake your students, Horace.”

“You’re questioning my loyalties when…” Slughorn trailed off, eyeing Severus.

Minerva simply smiled. “I think we know where Severus’s loyalties lie.”

“Do you?” Severus drawled.

“Oh, yes.”

He looked away.

~*~

It was complete chaos in the Great Hall as the staff coordinated the evacuation.

“I know that you are preparing to fight." There were screams amongst the students who had yet to evacuate, some of whom clutched each other, looking around in terror for the source of the sound. "Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood."

Silence descended in the Hall.

"Give me Harry Potter," said the Dark Lord's voice, "and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded.

"You have until midnight."

The silence swallowed them all again. Every head turned, every eye in the place seemed to have found Smith, to hold him frozen in the glare of thousands of invisible beams. Then a figure rose from the Slytherin table, and he recognised Montague as he raised a shaking arm and shouted, “But he’s there! Potter’s there! Someone grab him!”

Severus’s feet moved of their own volition, and he positioned himself like a shield between Smith and the desperate gazes of the onlookers.

“Thank you, Mr. Montague,” said Severus in a clipped voice. “You will leave the Hall first with Mr. Filch.”

The Slytherins stared at him with utter disbelief. Then there were heated cries of “Traitor!” and “Mudblood lover!”

“Two hundred points from Slytherin for disrespect toward a Hogwarts professor,” he replied.

Before one of the Slytherins could let out a syllable of a curse, Severus Disarmed him.

“If the rest of your House could follow,” he said. Other Order members trained their wands on the Slytherins.

He heard the grinding of benches and then the sound of the Slytherins trooping out on the other side of the Hall. Then, slowly, the four tables emptied. Few stayed behind.

Kingsley stepped forward on the raised platform to address those who remained.

“We’ve only got an hour until midnight, so we need to act fast! A battle plan has been agreed upon between the teachers of Hogwarts and the Order of the Phoenix. Professors Flitwick, Sprout, and McGonagall are going to take groups of fighters up to the three highest towers – Ravenclaw, Astronomy, and Gryffindor – where they’ll have a good overview: excellent positions from which to work spells. Meanwhile, Remus,” he indicated Lupin, “Arthur,” he pointed towards Arthur Weasley, “and I will take groups into the grounds. We’ll need somebody to organise a defense of the entrances of the passageways into the school–”

“Sounds like a job for us.” Severus recognised the red-haired Weasley as one of the blasted twins who had made his life a living nightmare during Potions class.

“We’ll convene in my office after evacuating all the students,” said Dumbledore.

They all nodded.

~*~

Severus looked around. Members of the Order of the Phoenix, a few Aurors, and the leftover students who were of age filled Dumbledore’s office.

“Where is Smith?” he asked, his eyes busily tracing the faces in the room.

“He said he needed to stop by the Room of Requirement to get something. I told him to meet me here,” answered Arthur.

He furrowed his eyebrows. “To get what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe his wand?”

No. Smith would not be fool enough to leave his wand behind; Severus had drilled into his mind never to let his wand out of his sight.

“Albus,” Severus said abruptly, with a sinking feeling. “Where is the Invisibility Cloak?”

“It is with Mr. Smith, of course. It belonged to his father, after all.”

Severus shot up. The other Order members regarded him with confused looks.

“You fool!” he hissed. “I know you’ve only just met him, but surely you realise he’d readily walk to his own death to protect others?”

“Yes, Severus, but–”

Severus stormed out before Dumbledore could finish, and he ran. He didn’t even know where he was running to, but that didn’t seem particularly relevant.

On his way he saw Kingsley Shacklebolt heading to Dumbledore’s office, and Severus barked out, “Have you seen the boy?”

“Harry Potter? I don’t know, I thought he was with Dumbledore,” he replied, baffled.

Cursing, Severus rushed to the Great Hall to find Black and Lupin.

“Where is the map?”

“Snape? What the hell–?”

“Give me the map,” he snapped. “Now!”

Black rose from his seat with a snarl. “Don’t take that tone with me, you greasy–”

Lupin grabbed him by his shoulder and sat him back down. “Why do you need the map, Severus?”

“I need to find Smi– Potter.”

Black’s eyes bulged with anger. “So you can hand him over to your master? I don’t–”

“Sirius, you know Dumbledore trusts Severus with his life,” Lupin interrupted.

“I don’t give a damn about any of that as long as he’s got the Mark on his arm,” Black growled. “I don’t trust you with my godson’s whereabouts.”

Merlin, he didn’t have time for this.

He whipped out his wand. “I need the map right now,” he bit out. “Your precious godson may already be heading out of the castle to surrender himself.”

Lupin and Black flinched in astonishment.

“The map. Now,” he demanded.

They shared a look, and, after an excruciating moment, Black reluctantly nodded, dug his hand into his pockets, and produced the map.

“If you even think about bringing him to Voldemort, Snape, I’ll make you wish for a quick death,” Black whispered.

Severus ignored him, and tried to find some remaining scrap of patience inside him as he waited what seemed like forever for the map to fully splay out the information after Lupin said the ridiculous phrase. The whole situation would have been comically ludicrous if it weren’t so dire.

“Where is he?”

His eyes swept over the map, his heart sinking more with each second that passed without their spotting the name Harry Potter.

“There!” Lupin pointed.

There was a lone dot. A lone dot moving away from Hogwarts, away from safety, and towards the Dark Forest.

“Wait, why is he going there?” Black asked, in disbelief. “You cast the Imperius Curse on him, didn’t you?” he shouted and grabbed Severus by his collar.

Severus paid no heed to the dog. “That’s impossible,” he said, throat dry. “It’s not him–”

His eyes remained transfixed on the parchment, on the moving black dot that simply could not be Harry Potter.

“The map never lies,” said Lupin regretfully.

And after a moment, the dot disappeared, taking Severus’s breath with it.

“What does that mean?” Severus asked sharply. “He can’t be…” The rest of the question died on his lips, too horrible to utter.

“He merely went beyond the map’s charted area,” Lupin explained.

His relief was short lived. Still, there was a shred of hope if he acted quickly. Severus knew that a little hope could be a dangerous thing. And yet, if Smith was still alive, he could not afford to give in to resignation.

As he was contemplating the quickest way of reaching Smith, Dumbledore walked into the Great Hall with the Order trailing after him. His blue eyes pinned him to the spot, silently reminding him.

The words came back to him.

The boy must die.

Dumbledore’s calm, resigned gaze met his stormy one.

Severus knew. He knew Dumbledore knew Smith would take advantage of the chaos and fear to sneak out to surrender himself. Severus bit back an inappropriate laugh; the old man was still as ruthless and merciless as ever.

“What do we do, Albus?”

The low murmur of the Order members’ strategising slowly died away in his ears.

Then a burst of silver light darted into the Great Hall, and the shape of a magnificent stag trotted to the center of the room.

Severus instantly knew whose Patronus it was.

Smith’s calm voice echoed through the Hall.

“No one needs to die for or because of me. I’m the one he wants. Please respect my decision and do whatever you can to save yourselves.”

Was it his imagination, or had the stag looked directly at him?

People drew in sharp breaths, realisation dawning on their faces: this-almost adult who was still at least partly a boy – this wizard who had spent his life as a Muggle – would sacrifice his life for this world he had never known until nine weeks prior.

The defeated, almost jaded look on their faces slowly transformed into renewed resolution.

Ironic how the death of a martyr feeds life into a struggle.

The stag slowly treaded over to Severus, sending flurries of silver mist around its hooves.

It nibbled on his sleeves.

Had Smith left him a final message?

He did not know if he could bear to hear it. But the stag stared at him, wordlessly, as if to memorise what Severus looked like.

Then it disintegrated.

~*~

Severus sat in the Great Hall, numb. People anxiously waited for something to happen, for a sign of triumph indicating that the Dark Lord had killed the Boy Who Lived, or that, by some miracle, Harry Potter had returned once again, unscathed.

The mutt kept staring down at the map, as if he had to make sure the name Harry Potter was not at Hogwarts. He muttered, “The map has to be wrong, Remus. It has to be…”

“You heard his message, Black,” Severus spat. “Do you think he’d send his Patronus and then run off to save his life? You know what he is like.”

Black shot to his feet. “You bastard! Why did you bring him here? You knew he had to face Voldemort, you knew Voldemort would– ”

“Just a few hours ago you were laughing with him and telling him how glad you were to have him back,” he snapped.

“Yes, and now I’ve lost him again!” Black roared, his face twisted with grief.

You are not the only one who lost him. Severus bit back the retort.

Indeed, this was the second time Severus had lost him. The first time had been a nightmare he never wanted to relive. And he could not possibly be so lucky as to have Smith return a second time. He had no doubt Smith would haunt his dreams.

And he would still be glad to see him, even if he was a spectre in his nightmares.

Minerva stood by his side and laid her hand on his shoulder.

Severus roughly shook it off.

“I’m not the one who needs comforting,” he growled. “Black can barely contain himself.”

“You were attached to him,” said Minerva gently.

“So was Black. And Lupin. And everyone. Everyone adored him,” he muttered.

How could they not?

An almost-Muggle wizard and prophesied hero who came back after all these years. But more than that, a good man who charmed everyone with his earnest smiles and caring heart.

“You two formed a deep bond on the way to Hogwarts. To lose someone whom you…”

He could not let her finish that sentence.

“I was only responsible for him, Minerva. Nothing more. I’m only distressed because now the Dark Lord would have my hide for my traitorous acts.”

She pursed her lips, her concerned eyes dwelling on him. He turned his back on her.

Then an ear-splitting sound bombarded their eardrums.

“Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.”

It was a blatant lie.

“It is pointless. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”

People slowly inched towards the front door of the school, dreading what they would see. The open doorway filled with people, as they came out to see the truth of Smith’s death for themselves.

“No…”

It escaped him like a last breath before he could stop it.

The sight of Smith’s limp body at the Dark Lord’s feet was beyond cruel.

Limp. Lifeless. Dead.

“NO!” Black screamed in despair. “No! That… that can’t be–” he moaned. It was so raw that it sounded feral.

“You see?” said the Dark Lord gleefully. “Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him! He was never your prophesied hero!”

After having seen the silver stag and heard its words, everyone knew that was a lie.

Everyone knew they were alive now because of Smith’s sacrifice.

“Now. There are some debts to be settled,” said the Dark Lord. He slithered forwards, stepping over Smith’s cold body and through the doors.

“Our traitor,” the Dark Lord purred. “Come, Severus.”

He could not rip his eyes away from Smith. He looked too peaceful, unaware of the storm of emotions whirling inside him. He could not be dead. He could not.

Not twenty-four hours ago his vibrant green eyes had been comforting Severus with their gentle gaze.

How could he be dead?

“Severus,” the Dark Lord hissed. “You’ve known the boy was alive all this time and it never occurred to you to tell me?”

What was the point of it? Evan Smith was dead. What use was it to know whether he knew Smith was alive few months ago?

The Dark Lord raised his wand. “Answer me!” he barked. “Cru-”

“PROTEGO!”

A Shield Charm expanded in the middle of the courtyard between him and the Dark Lord, and, in one swift, fluid motion, Smith rose from the ground and adopted the dueling stance.

The eyes that briefly locked with his were very green and very much alive.

Pure exhilaration burst in his chest, and, for a moment, he could not breathe. He could not believe what he was seeing. Smith was alive. Alive.

The yells of shock, the cheers, the screams were stifled at once. The crowd was afraid, and silence fell abruptly and completely as Smith and the Dark Lord looked at each other, and began, at the same moment, to circle one another.

“I don’t want anyone else to try to help,” Smith said loudly. “It’s got to be like this. It’s got to be me.”

The Dark Lord hissed, his eyes wide with disbelief and fear.

“It’s just you and me. Neither can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good…”

“One of us?” jeered the Dark Lord, and his whole body was taut and his red eyes stared, like a snake’s about to strike. “You think it will be you, do you? The boy who has survived by accident?”

“Accident, was it, when my mother died to save me?” asked Smith. They were still moving sideways, both of them, in that perfect circle, maintaining the same distance from each other, and, for Severus, no face existed but Smith’s. “Accident, that I didn’t defend myself tonight, and still survived, and returned to fight again?”

“Accidents! ” screamed Voldemort, but still he did not strike, and the watching crowd was frozen as if Petrified, and, of the hundreds in the Hall, nobody seemed to breathe but they two. “Accident and chance and the fact that you were merely lucky, and you are now out of luck. You may have had your Mudblood mother save you with her love, but you, Potter, you are hardly better than a Muggle. You don’t know a thing about magic, whereas I, Lord Voldemort, have pushed the boundaries of magic further than they have ever been pushed–” the Dark Lord sneered. “What chance do you think you have against the most powerful wizard of all time? I, the Heir of Slytherin, and the Dark Lord. You have no power to stop me from killing these people.”

“You won’t be killing anyone else tonight,” said Smith as they circled, and stared into each other’s eyes – green into red. “You won’t be able to kill any of them ever again. Don’t you get it? I was ready to die to stop you from hurting these people–”

“But you did not!”

“–I meant to, and that’s what did it. I’ve done what my mother did. They’re protected from you. Haven’t you noticed how none of the spells you put on them are binding? You can’t torture them. You can’t touch them. I don’t need years of studying magic to understand the power of love and sacrifice.”

Smith’s green eyes blazed ever brighter.

The Dark Lord’s face contorted with indignant rage.

“How will you protect them when you’re just a cold body?” the Dark Lord’s voice shook with malicious pleasure.

His chest rose and fell rapidly.

Severus could feel it in his skin, the momentum building, the air taut with tension.

“It won’t matter. God, you don’t get it, do you?” said Smith. “And you’ll never know.”

A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them as an edge of dazzling sun appeared over the sill of the nearest window. The light hit both of their faces at the same time, so that the Dark Lord’s was suddenly a flaming blur. Severus heard the high voice shriek as Smith too yelled:

“Avada Kedavra!”

“Expelliarmus!”

Severus’s first thought was, Of course. Of. Bloody. Course. Of all the lethal spells and ironstrong defense charms I taught him, Smith would cast a bloody disarming spell at a madman who was trying to kill him.

His second thought was, I will lose him after all.

His third thought was interrupted by the sight unfolding in front of him.

A jet of green light issued from the Dark Lord's wand just as a jet of red light blasted from Smith's; they met in midair, and suddenly Smith's wand was vibrating as though an electric charge were surging through it. And a narrow beam of light connected the two wands, neither red nor green, but bright, deep gold.

Astonished cries sounded around them as Smith and the Dark Lord were both raised into the air, their wands still connected by that thread of shimmering golden light. They glided away from the courtyard.

Suddenly, the golden thread connecting Smith and the Dark Lord splintered; though their wands remained connected, a thousand more beams arced high above them, crisscrossing all around until they were enclosed in a golden, dome-shaped web, a cage of light, beyond which the Death Eaters, Aurors, and other onlookers circled like jackals.

"Do nothing!" the Dark Lord shrieked to the Death Eaters, and Severus saw his red eyes wide with astonishment at what was happening, saw him fighting to break the thread of light still connecting his wand with Smith's. "Do nothing unless I command you!" the Dark Lord shouted to the Death Eaters.

Severus kept a careful eye on the Death Eaters in case some overeager fool acted out rashly and attacked Smith. He stood by the edge of the dome as close as he could. He knew he should aid the Order and the Aurors in capturing the Death Eaters who were staring at their master, but he could not afford to be away from Smith. Out of the corner of his eyes, Severus saw Black and Lupin dueling Bellatrix Lestrange; Dumbledore conjuring an elaborate wall of fire to fend off the giants; Minerva and Filius fighting Dolohov and Rookwood; Kingsley and the Weasleys bringing down Fenrir Greyback.

Then an unearthly and beautiful sound filled the air. It was coming from every thread of the light-spun web vibrating around Smith and the Dark Lord. It was what Severus could only guess was a phoenix song from the times he had heard Fawkes lament at the funerals of Order members.

Severus watched helplessly from outside the dome as large beads of light slid up and down the thread connecting the wands – and he felt down to his bones that the worst would happen if the bead came into contact with Smith's wand.

He wanted to shout, wanted to warn Smith, but he found his throat tight and his traitorous body frozen. He was just another member of this grisly audience.

And thankfully, thankfully, the beads quivered to a halt, and then, slowly, they began to move the other way, inch by inch, along the golden thread. Finally, they connected with the tip of the Dark Lord's wand.

At once, the wand began to emit echoing screams of pain… then something blossomed from the tip, a great, grayish something that slowly took the shape of a person.

The Dark Lord's wand repeatedly emitted these screams of pain, each followed by a smoky figure arising from its tip.

With a sickening lurch in his stomach, Severus realised the figures were the Dark Lord's dead victims.

Myriad shadowy figures soon filled the dome.

And there stood Voldemort, surrounded by his sins and the ghosts of his past.

At long last, the smoky shadows of Lily and James Potter emerged from the wand, and fell to the ground as the other figures had done, and looked at Smith… He had expected it as soon as he saw the latest victims emerge, but seeing a translucent Lily, a mere wisp of her radiant living self, still wrenched his heart open.

Smith’s parents approached their son and murmured what Severus could only assume were long overdue words of love. Severus inwardly thanked the mutt and his pet wolf for showing Smith magical photographs of his parents happy, vital and quite alive before he experienced these translucent echos.

Smith looked as if he didn't know whether to sob with grief or with joy at finally seeing his parents, no matter how incomplete they seemed. He eyed them with rapt attention, drinking in the sight of them as if he could never get enough. He was shaking, either from the power of the wand connection or from the onslaught of unexpected emotion. Probably both. Severus could see his hands grasping ever harder to his wand as he controlled his yearning to reach out and touch their faces. From his distance, Severus could only faintly hear what Smith was saying.

“Mum? Dad?” Smith’s lips trembled. “Oh god,” he croaked, and let out heaving sobs.

Seeing Smith undone, Severus truly regretted the Potters' death – not just Lily's, but also James’s. He regretted their absence throughout Smith's childhood… what could have been.

Then Lily glided towards him, to the periphery of the dome, but not too far away from Smith.

Severus stared at her, mouth agape, and, for a moment, he was absolutely terrified and unprepared to face this shard of Lily's soul. What could she possibly say to him? How dare he lust after her son? How wrong it was? How undeserving he was of him? How he had failed her once again by delivering her child to death's door?

"Severus," Lily said. "Sev."

And she smiled. She smiled as if the last three decades had never happened, as if they were sitting under their favourite tree in their old neighborhood.

"You have done so much…" she said. “There isn’t much time but I wanted to thank you, for showing Harry magic as you showed me. And for protecting him. Thank you, Sev, for caring for my son.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. What was she saying? Couldn’t she see that he had failed her spectacularly?

Then James Potter appeared beside her and laid his hand on her shoulder. Severus braced himself for a litany of slurs, but none came. Instead, James Potter curtly nodded, and said, "Thank you, Snape."

He spoke not as a bully, nor an arch-nemesis with whom he had shared years of enmity and resentment: he spoke as a father. And Severus saw for the first time the man who had stood up to Voldemort in a futile but brave attempt to protect Lily and their son.

Severus stiffly nodded.

James spoke again. "When the connection is broken, we will linger for only moments. But we will give you time. We will also tell Harry this."

"Goodbye, Sev," said Lily. "Keep him safe, will you?"

"I will." And it wasn’t an oath, but he knew it was true.

There was so much to magic that Smith had yet to learn and experience. He could not let the man experience the despair and guilt and so much hatred wrought by Avada Kedavra.

Smith would not last a day with the knowledge that he had taken a life, regardless of how forced it was or how benevolent the intention was to free the wizarding world from the grasp of a madman.

Severus could not bear to see the man waste his life away with guilt.

He saw Lily and James leaning towards Smith to whisper to him.

Smith's soul would not be able to muster up enough hatred and resolution to kill another human being; he would break under the pressure.

Severus could not let the man's soul be ripped into pieces.

So, when he gripped his wand tightly and raised his hand, it wasn't to save the wizarding world. It wasn't for Dumbledore and his bloody oath. It wasn't for Lily in an act of atonement. It wasn't for himself either.

It was for Smith. For him. For him.

Severus saw Smith jerk his wand away, and the golden thread broke; the cage of light vanished and the phoenix song died, but the shadowy figures of the Dark Lord's victims did not disappear – they were closing in on the Dark Lord, shielding Smith from his gaze.

And that was his chance.

Without hesitation, he shouted, “Avada Kedavra!"

Severus first felt it in his soul through the Dark Mark, as a jet of green light pierced through the prowling, smoky figures.

Then the Dark Lord fell backward, arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling upward. He hit the ground with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snakelike face vacant and unknowing. The Dark Lord was dead.

And the tumult broke around him as the screams and the cheers and the roars of the watchers rent the air.

"Severus?!" Smith's astonished voice cried out through the chaos.

Perhaps it was the way his name flawlessly rolled off of Smith's tongue. His arm shot forward and grabbed Smith, and Severus slammed their mouths together.

The warmth. The warmth – it seeped into his mouth and his chest and his body like a rush of blood renewing every cell.

It was only when his hand slipped into Smith’s jet-black hair on its own that he realised Smith might not want to kiss a mouth that had uttered murderous words not seconds ago, no matter how foul said life might have been.

He started to pull away, but found he had to bite back a moan of surprise when Smith's hand tugged him forward and kissed him back with fervor.

“You kissed me,” said Smith, grinning so hard that it looked idiotic.

“Yes, an astute observation.”

“Will you kiss me again? Just to make sure you’re not kissing me because of adrenaline,” said Smith seriously.

And Severus obliged.

It was more languid. But not passionless.

Severus could feel Smith smile through the kiss, and found himself doing the same.

Smith wrapped his limbs around him as if he couldn’t get enough of him, and Severus held him tight. His tongue carefully mapped the inside of Smith’s mouth and slid along Smith’s tongue, causing him to let out a deep groan. It was raw with desire, and Severus thought he could almost come from that sound alone.

There was a loud coughing sound.

For a moment, Severus was going to ignore it in favor of eliciting more pornographic noises from Smith. The sensation – his mouth, his sounds, and his touch, everything was delectable, and he vowed to explore it.

Then there were more coughing sounds.

Finally he broke off, leaving Smith looking utterly dazed and obscenely flushed.

He looked around; the people around them were shell-shocked. From the Dark Lord’s death or from their kiss, he didn’t know.

Severus heard Black making a strangled noise. “Oh my fucking god. Moony, did I just see my godson snogging Snivellus?”

Smith grinned sheepishly.

Lupin patted Black on the back. “There, there.” Black looked like he was going to faint.

Smith turned to face him. “How is it that you were able to kill him? I thought it was either me or him.”

Dumbledore replied instead. “It seems that when you willingly faced your death, the Prophecy was fulfilled.”

“Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…” Smith whispered.

“Precisely!” Dumbledore nodded. “You willingly died at the hand of Voldemort. He destroyed the part of his soul that was inside you, and the Prophecy was fulfilled. No longer bound by the prophecy, it was possible for Severus to defeat Voldemort.”

“So he’s gone, then?” Smith asked hopefully.

“It seems so.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Excuse me. I must help Pomona untangle the Death Eaters and the Snatchers from the Devil’s Snare. Oh dear. Tentacula seemed to have knocked them off completely. And Minerva’s moving statues may drown in the Black Lake.” He walked away to join a group of Aurors and the Order who were trying to mitigate the situation.

Smith reached out and fiddled with Severus’ sleeves. “So… you kissed me. Twice. Are you sure your feelings are not misguided? Or adrenaline induced?” he asked worriedly.

It was odd to come to the end of such doubt. He, who had spent weeks discrediting Smith's sincerity. It was still quite overwhelming. How could Smith want him? An obnoxious, greasy git, and a murderer to boot.

“I mean, I don’t know why you would even fancy me. I must look so childish to you. And so ignorant of your culture,” he mumbled. “And about magic in general.”

“You can learn,” said Severus. “After all, you have your whole life ahead of you now, or rather, you can have if you begin treating it with at least a modicum of care…”

“Will…” he paused. “Will you teach me, then?” Smith stared at him with hope blossoming in his eyes.

The vision of Smith staying beside him, marking his students’ Potions essays seemed not so ludicrous after all. Perhaps they could go to Hogsmeade. And Diagon Alley. Smith would absolutely love Honeydukes. Severus could give Smith a broomstick for his birthday.

He nodded.

“Is that a yes?” Smith asked.

“Yes.”

Severus smiled at him.

-The End-

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