snarry_games Fic: The Upper Air Burst into Life, part 1
Title: The Upper Air Burst into Life
Author: yura_slash
Pairing: Snape/Harry
Team: Phoenix
Genre(s): Postwar
Prompt(s): Spilling Fire, Forgiveness
Rating/Warnings/Kinks: masturbation, voyeurism, oral sex, sex, cursing
Word Count: 15,700
Summary: Harry can forgive Severus, but can Severus forgive himself?
A/N: Thanks to Team Phoenix for offering outstanding support, especially to iulia_linnea, fuschia, and fenghuang_jin for their various beta readings :)
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.


And soon I heard a roaring wind:
It did not come anear;
But with its sound it shook the sails
That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life!
And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
To and fro they were hurried about!
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud,
And the sails did sigh like sedge;
And the rain poured down from one black cloud;
The Moon was at its edge.

- Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner


The Upper Air Burst into Life

In a damp cellar beneath a dark and lonely house, a sick man coughed into a crumpled handkerchief. His thin shoulders, covered by a faded and frayed cloak, shook with the violence of his unrelenting hacking, and long pieces of lank, dark hair swung forward to obscure all of his face except for a pale, hooked nose. The coughing went on for some time.

Finally, after what seemed like hours but was surely only minutes, the harsh upheaval came to an end. Specks of blood now decorated the white square of linen in the man’s hand, and he scowled at the handkerchief darkly before stuffing it in his trouser pocket and turning back to his work.

One may have noticed that the man was horribly thin and might have hoped that the cauldron he bent over was full of a soup or hearty stew, but that was not the case. No, the man turned back to the potion he had been attempting to brew before the fit of coughing had overtaken him. With narrowed eyes, he noted that the potion’s viscosity was off by several degrees, and its colour and temperature were fluctuating wildly from moment to moment. In a fit of rage, he knocked the cauldron off its stand and sent it clattering to the cold, dirt floor. The slop inside of it splattered every which way, and the man watched with cold fury as it ate like acid into the earthen wall of his self-imposed prison.

This had to end. And soon. The man’s eyes darted around the dark cellar, taking stock of his situation as best he could: his throat was raw with the constant coughing, and it was obvious that no amount of brewing would help him; unable to gain access to any of his personal belongings made finding a cure next to impossible, but now his magic was unreliable and prone to ruining whatever projects he attempted to start; the food stores that had been kept on the cellar’s simple wooden shelves had dwindled to one lone potato and a near-empty jar of preserved peaches; and no matter where he turned, the answers to his problems were not to be found in the hidden cellar of his childhood home. His eyes landed on a recent issue of The Daily Prophet, and his expression hardened for a moment before he walked briskly towards the spilled cauldron, having made the most difficult decision of his life in the space of a moment.

The man picked up the cauldron with stiff fingers and moved back to his worktable, where he doused the flames beneath the cauldron stand and began to pack up his meagre belongings. He focused his attentions on the cauldrons and other lab equipment that he needed to pack, but his eyes darted back to the newspaper periodically, as if he were afraid that the words emblazoned across its top border might change.

The words remained the same as he emptied glass tubes and packed them away in a patched and mouldy duffle bag that he’d found in a corner of the cellar. He used a spare cloak as padding, as he couldn’t rely on his magic to safeguard the glass and lab equipment. Finally, when the room was empty of all personal effects, he gave the damp, subterranean room where he had spent the last two months one last contemptuous look before closing his eyes tightly. He sent one silent appeal to Merlin and then left the cellar the only way possible, by turning on his heel and Apparating. The only thing he left behind was the newspaper, its headline still reading:

“Saviour of the Wizarding World Pleas for Pardoning Deceased D.E. Severus Snape!”


*****Part One: In England*****

Harry paced the length of the drawing room, his mind turning over the same problem time and again. A flask was clutched in his hand, the memories inside it swirling in agitation as he walked. How could he convince the Wizengamot to pardon Severus Snape posthumously—without allowing them to view the memories that Professor Snape had left him in the last few moments of his life?

He turned at the bust of Sir Thomas Thornswick and continued walking around the chairs that crowded the musty drawing room, squeezing the flask in his hand and taking comfort from its weight. To share Professor Snape’s memories with anyone seemed, to Harry at least, a gross betrayal of the man’s trust, even though it would make the case for his innocence so much easier.

If only the Wizengamot would just take his word for it, but they were loath to pardon the man who had killed Albus Dumbledore, one of the greatest wizards of the last half a millennium. Not even on the word of the current “Saviour of the Wizarding World.”

He was just contemplating contacting Professor McGonagall, in the hopes that she had found something in the Headmaster’s office or chambers that he could use in Snapes’ defence, when he heard a loud bang! from the direction of the entrance hall.

“Potter!”

And then a fit of coughing.

Harry’s wand was in his hand in the space of an instant. It sounded like the front door to Grimmauld Place had been thrown open and a man… Snape? But it couldn’t be… had shouted his name.

“Who’s there?” Harry called out after the short coughing fit had come to an end, moving towards the door to the drawing room. It was slightly ajar, and he could see that no one was in the adjoining dining room. The dining room was just off the entrance hall, and both of the large doors leading to it stood open. Harry couldn’t see the front door from where he stood, and there were no movements or sounds coming from the hall, so he tucked the flask of memories into his trouser pocket and strode through the dining room. Just before reaching the entrance hall, he dropped down into a crouch and turned his back to the wall on one side of the open doorway. Because he had just called out from further back in the house, whoever it was that had shouted his name might have thought that Harry was further away, and therefore lowered his guard.

Another loud bang! echoed in the hall as a door was slammed shut.

Harry risked a glance around the door frame, wand at the ready.

There was no one in the entrance hall. But the door had just—

Harry felt a wand tip jab into the back of his head.

“Just because one evil wizard dies is no reason to drop one’s guard, Mister Potter. Care to tell me why the Fidelius Charm was not altered after my… actions one year past?”

“Oh. My. God,” Harry gasped, suddenly weak and unable to draw a breath. His head was fuzzy, disconnected from the rest of his body. His wand dropped from nerveless fingers and clattered against the linoleum floor. “S-S-Sn-Snape?”

The wand pressed against his skull withdrew, and Harry turned his head slowly. Right on the other side of the wall, standing ramrod straight and scowling down at him darkly, was the last person that Harry would ever expect to see in the entrance hall of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. “Snape? Oh my God, Snape! You – you’re… you’re alive!” Harry stood up in a rush, and immediately regretted it. He swayed, bright lights dancing across his vision and blocking his view of Snape, who watched him waver with his lips pressed together tight.

“I do hope you’re not about to faint, Mister Potter. Whatever your misconceptions, I won’t be catching you.”

Snape’s voice, much more hoarse than Harry remembered, broke through his vertigo. He put out a hand to steady himself against the door frame, and couldn’t help but notice the way that Snape stepped back, as if afraid that Harry would strike him. “I can’t believe you’re alive,” Harry whispered, catching and then searching Snape’s cold, dark eyes with an intensity that made the other man blink.

“Yes. Your grasp of the obvious –”

“How?”

Snape’s gaze was unwavering, but he would not answer; swallowing with a suppressed wince of pain, he drew Harry’s attention to his throat.

“Professor, your neck! It’s –”

Harry watched as spots of colour rose on Snape’s cheeks and a sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead. “Once again, Potter, you state the obvious! I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here, when you are clearly too dense to offer me the assistance that I need!”

Snape drew his cloak around him and, with a tatty duffel bag in his hand that Harry hadn’t noticed before, he made his way briskly to the door.

“W-Wait! Snape! Don’t –”

Snape twirled, his cloak fanning out like his robes were wont to do in the past, and Harry was taken aback when he realized that Snape wore only trousers and a long-sleeved, button-down shirt underneath his thin cloak. And… and he looked ill. Harry wisely did not mention any such thing, wishing to avoid another outburst; however, seeing Snape look ill made him all the more determined to offer his help.

“If you need my help, all you have to do is ask – really! I mean, I am kind of in the middle of appealing the Wizengamot so that you can be pardoned posthumously. Well, I mean, I know you’re not dead—now I do, anyway—but nobody else does. Unless –”

Snape closed his eyes, as if pained. “Unless nothing, Mister Potter. However misguided your intentions, you will not tell anyone that I am alive.”

“Okay, no problem. Just… you said you needed my help, right? Well, what do you… I mean, are you…” Harry’s eyes kept dropping to Snape’s neck, transfixed by the heavy scarring visible above the collar of his cloak. Desperate to keep Snape where he could see him, alive and as cranky as ever, he swallowed nervously and then stepped back towards the dining room. “Would you like some tea? We can put a kettle on, and –”

Snape’s eyes darted around the entrance hall before peering into the adjoining dining room. “Yes, I suppose…” he murmured hoarsely. “I could use some refreshment.” He dropped his duffel bag by the umbrella stand, careful not to jostle whatever was inside, and nodded to Harry. “Lead the way, Mister Potter. And don’t forget to recover your wand—before I accidently step on it.”

**********

The moment Potter’s back was turned, Severus’ shoulders slumped and his breathing became more laboured. The amount of control it had taken to remain unwavering was draining. Add to that, he was feeling extremely apprehensive about what he was about to do. Nevertheless, he followed Harry into the kitchen, wiping the sweat from his brow on his sleeve and trying to slow his breathing before he began panting like a common cur.

As he walked, he thought carefully about his next move. Until Harry understood what Severus was asking of him, and agreed to help, he wouldn’t let on how weak he was. Parlour tricks like the door slamming shut while he was already across the hall were nothing, and they had served to put Harry on edge. Unfortunately, some measure of weakness would have to be revealed so that Harry would help in the first place. It shouldn’t be hard to convince him of his flagging health—the shout he’d given out had started him coughing, and a only a quick (and lucky!) numbing spell cast on his throat had stopped the fit.

Just before they reached the kitchen, he gave his wand an experimental shake and then scowled viciously. It seemed that his luck had run out. He’d gotten off an Apparition, conjured a gust of wind for the door, and cast a numbing spell all in a row, and now he was feeling the inevitable lack of magic that had haunted him intermittently since he awoke in the Shrieking Shack.

When they reached the kitchen, which he remembered as such a dark and drab room, Severus was shocked to see Kreacher happily cleaning the now spotless counters. The walls were a gleaming white and the cupboards polished.

“Would Master like some tea?”

“Yes, Kreacher. That would be great.”

Severus refused to let any of his surprise or exhaustion show as he sat at the kitchen table across from Potter, though he had to suppress a sigh of relief when he took his seat. Time passed slowly after that, Harry refusing to look at him and Severus scowling at the wall next to Harry’s head, tense and uncomfortable. Finally, when the tea was in front of them and Kreacher had left the kitchen, he felt himself relax. It had been so long since he had a good cuppa… he took a long sip and then sat stiffly with teacup in hand. “So… I must say that I’m shocked to find you so calm,” Severus said, resisting the urge to clear his throat. He didn’t need to go into a coughing fit now, what with Potter staring at him above the rim of his cup with wide, green eyes.

“Yes, well I’ve had some time to consider what happened, in the past,” Harry began, voice tremulous. “I suppose I can’t blame you unfairly for what happened, although I still think you’re a miserable, mean-spirited person.”

Severus grit his teeth.

“And I do blame you still for the things that were your fault. You’re the reason my parents are dead, and you’ve always treated me so horribly. And you k– you killed… I know he asked you to, but how… Did you…” He pushed his glasses up his nose and ran a shaking hand through his hair in one nervous gesture.

Severus felt his heart rate pick up. Sweat broke out on his upper lip. He took a sip of his tea, raising the cup to his mouth slowly, his hand shaking. After a careful sip, he relished the hot, soothing liquid as it slid down his sore throat.

“I can’t even… Merlin but I… sometimes I can’t help but think that it was as much my fault as it was yours, you know?”

When Harry was nervous, he tended to prattle on and on. It was beginning to give Severus a headache.

“I mean, if I hadn’t– and then I thought that maybe your body had been taken, and that was my fault, too. I just didn’t think that you could have survived that, and, I mean, how? You just… and now you want my help? I just don’t understand. What’s wrong? Why–”

Severus put down his cup abruptly, clattering the china against its matching saucer and startling Harry into silence. “For the last two months, I have attempted to alleviate the lingering symptoms of Nagini’s bite,” he bit out, voice low and dangerous. “I brewed and sweat and went without proper nourishment. Alone, I spent my time searching for a cure…” Potter, who was hanging onto his every word at this point, made small enraptured noises, ready to interrupt given the slightest chance. Severus took grim satisfaction in hissing, “I am beginning to miss the silence.”

Harry’s mouth gaped open for a moment, before clacking shut. A frown marred his features as he looked down into his tea cup. “Maybe I shouldn’t have invited you in for tea,” he mumbled.

Severus felt a tightening in his chest. “Nonsense. Despite your tendency to prattle, I do need your help. And I am willing to answer your questions, to a degree.”

Harry nodded. “I need some answers before I’ll commit to anything.” His green eyes blazed as he raised his head and stared at Severus’ impassive face. “So… what’s wrong with you exactly? And why do you need my help? Didn’t you have any potions to take if Nagini bit you? Or did you use a bezoar? When I left the Shrieking Shack, you were bleeding out and your eyes, they –”

Severus raised a hand sharply to quiet him and Harry stuttered to a halt.

“Sorry. It’s just…”

“You are curious. Of course. After your sojourn into my Pensieve all those years ago, I cannot say I am surprised by your infuriating desire to know that which is not your –”

“You would bring that up.”

“– business. Nevertheless, I will answer a few of your questions.”

“Amazing what a little humility can do for you, Professor.”

Severus gripped his teacup hard enough to shatter the porcelain and counted to ten in his head. “Don’t call me that,” Severus growled. “I am no longer, and will never again be, a professor. Snape will do just fine.”

Harry blinked. “Um, sure, Professor. I mean, Sn-Snape. Snape! Um… you can call me Harry, if you’d like.”

Severus rolled his eyes. Harry seemed disconcerted that Severus had challenged his address, and not his tone, but Severus was too weary at this point to do much else. “Yes, well, Harry, in answer to your earlier question, I think something in Nagini’s venom—or perhaps some other variable that I am as yet unaware of—reacted badly with the dark magic present in my Dark Mark.”

Harry’s eyes darted to Severus’ covered forearm, and then flickered back up to meet his dark eyes again, wide and nervous.

Severus hummed low in throat, allowing the faux pas, and then continued. “There is hardly any reason to go into further detail, about the precautions I took or the symptoms I suffer. You must take my word for it that they both are considerable, because I do not have the slightest inclination to satisfy your curiosity.”

Harry looked affronted, but before he could react, Severus pushed on.

“All you need to know is that I require your assistance. I’ll be taking a long trip, travelling by Muggle means, and I would like you to accompany me. I need someone to watch my back. A strong wizard. Someone I can trust. Can you do that, Potter?” And here he paused to raise an eyebrow. “Harry.”

Harry dropped his eyes to his teacup, now mostly empty, and began to fiddle with it. “Um... no offense, Snape, but I’m not sure why you think you can trust me. I mean, you killed Dumbledore, and I’m not over it. Far from it. I know he asked you to– but how could you? How could you?” The windows rattled ominously. “And when I was in school you were such a… a…”

“Cease your assault on that cup and keep you magic in control!” Severus shouted, causing Harry to jump and drop his cup to the table. A small puddle of tea spread across the scarred tabletop just as Severus’ throat, inflamed and much abused, rebelled against him. For all of his self-control, he could not stop the coughing fit that his outburst had triggered, and he coughed laboriously for what seemed like an eternity.

When he was finally able to silence his coughs, he looked up to see a blue tea-towel in front of his nose. It was slightly damp from the tea that Harry had just mopped up, but Severus took it anyway. He wiped his hand, now spotted with blood, and his mouth.

“I trust you, more than I can trust anyone else, at least,” Severus rasped. “No one else is fighting for my pardon.”

Harry took the tea-towel from his shaking hand and dropped it in the bin behind him. “That was when I thought you were dead.”

He looked grim, and Severus frowned. If only he could cast an Obliviate as effortlessly as he’d been able to in the past. He wouldn’t have been so worried about the outcome of this conversation if he could. “As much as I hate to ask for help, you are my only hope to find a cure for my illness. I need someone to help me get where I need to go, and keep me safe while I find a cure. I have taken a considerable risk in coming here, and if you are unwilling–”

“No. Don’t– just… don’t. I owe you for everything you’ve done to help me, and… we all do things we regret. Things that we wish we hadn’t been forced to do. When I saw your memories, I…” Harry smiled faintly, uncertainly. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. But I’m not as angry as I was, you know? I don’t blame you entirely.” And now his emerald green eyes met his head on. “So. What can I do to help?”

**********

While Severus loitered downstairs, sitting straight-backed in front of the drawing room’s gargantuan fireplace, Harry went upstairs to pack his things. Moving through his bathroom and then his bedroom, he gathered his personal effects quickly. A trip as long as the one Snape was planning would require a lot of clothes and other items, like books and mags to keep him from growing bored, and as he packed he wished he’d learned more about the spell Hermione had used on her handbag.

He tried not to think too much about what he was doing—disrupting his life to help a man most were happy to think dead—and when he couldn’t avoid it, he tried to tell himself that he was at least doing the right thing. The fact that he didn’t particularly like Snape didn’t have any bearing on this situation. And if he still hadn’t completely forgiven the man… well.

But he would help Snape, and in doing so, he would prove that forgiveness was possible. That the wounds caused by war and battle were not impossible to heal. His speech at the Victory Feast had been about the importance of forgiveness—he had encouraged the Wizarding world to move past their differences and work on rebuilding the community and their government. By doing this now, he would be contributing to that spirit. He would also being doing something for the man who had been saving his life for years.

After all, what better penance for thinking the man a traitor (and then, after finding it not to be true, leaving him for dead in a squalid shack) than protecting and defending him on the long journey necessary to cure his illness?

The hardest part of the whole venture, Harry thought, would be keeping it a secret from his friends. Ron and Hermione knew everything about him, and surely it wouldn’t matter in the least if he told them that Snape was alive and that he was helping him. But of course, Snape didn’t feel that way at all. According to him, the fewer that knew that he was alive, the better. As it was now, he felt weak, and Harry knew that it ate away at him and made him even more cautious than he’d been before, during the worst part of the war. If he’d known nothing about the man to begin with, he would be able to see that from the way his eyes never stopped darting around a room, and the way he gripped his wand and then moved his hand away, as if burned.

So, in order to show forgiveness and earn it in his own right, he’d have to keep what he was doing from his two closest friends. Harry couldn’t remember the last time that he’d lied to Ron or Hermione, but there it was. Even if this was just a lie of omission, it would still be hard.

After throwing a great deal of clothes and necessities into his trunk, he flung it on top of his bed and then turned to the fireplace, where a low fire burned, warming his chambers. A pot of Floo powder stood on the mantle, almost crowded out by all of the smiling pictures of his friends. He’d had them framed and then placed them there as a reminder of what his sacrifices, and the countless sacrifices of others, had bought, but now they just served to make him feel more guilty about what he was about to do. Trying not to meet the eyes of Ron and Hermione’s images, Harry grabbed blindly for a handful of powder and then flung it into the fire.

“The Burrow!” he shouted, after falling to his knees and putting his head into the flames. A few, horrible seconds later, during which Harry feared he may vomit, things settled down and Harry looked around to find himself in the fire of the Burrow’s main sitting room.

“Oh! Harry, dear!”

Harry looked up, past a woman’s ample bosom, and into Molly’s cheerful face.

“I was wondering when you’d come calling! I know it’s only been two weeks, and I’ve been telling Ginny not to fret, that you were a very busy young man, but she just–”

Harry felt something painful twist inside him, but ignored it in favour asking after Ron and Hermione. He had to do this now, and he couldn’t be distracted by Ginny, although he cared for her. “I’m sorry, Missus Weasley, but I haven’t called for Ginny. I need to speak with Hermione and Ron, right away, and then I’ll have to go away for bit. I’m sorry, but this is… this is very important. Could you send them in after me? And maybe… tell Ginny that I’ll be away? I’d come in and tell her myself, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

Missus Weasley’s smile fell, and her lips pressed together tightly. Harry braced himself for an outburst, but it came from an unexpected source. Behind her, hidden behind Molly’s stocky frame, was Ginny, who had entered the sitting room in time to hear his requests of her mother.

She appeared beside Molly then, eyes bright and lower lip trembling. “Harry, how could you? It’s always one thing after another with you—and can’t even me bothered to tell me things yourself anymore!”

Molly had backed away a bit, but there was a look of approval on her face that grated on Harry’s nerves.

“And not only do I find out that you went to die that night, walking right past me without even a goodbye, but now you’re off again, and can’t even tell me, can’t say goodbye. You’ll talk to Ron and Hermione—my brother! and his girlfriend!—but not me. Never me! You want to protect me? Well I don’t need your protection! And I just… I – I can’t take this anymore!”

Molly nodded her head in agreement, and Harry couldn’t help it. He just couldn’t. He had to say it– “You’re right, Ginny. Completely right.”

He waited a moment for the stunned silence to fill the room, wishing that he hadn’t had this conversation with just his head in the fire, surrounded by green, licking flames, but so be it.

“I do feel like I can’t tell you things. And that’s wrong. Hell, I know that what I’ve done to you is wrong. But I needed you back then. And then, after Dumbledore’s death, I realized that I couldn’t need you. It was too dangerous.

“And I’m sorry, you’re right to be angry, but… maybe we could use another break. Some time to think about what we want.”

Ginny’s mouth worked feebly, and Molly had placed a hand across her breast, as if astonished, and all of this was somehow unimportant in light of the task ahead of him. Helping Snape.

“Now, my knees are starting to hurt, and I really do need to talk to Ron and Hermione. You deserve better, Gin, but I just can’t… I am in a hurry, and I’ve got something to do, and you know I take my responsibilities seriously. So please, get Ron and Hermione and send them through. I’ll be waiting.”

And before the first tear could fall, before any more angry shouting, before the entire Weasley household came down to the sitting room, curious about all the racket, Harry pulled his head out of the fire and fell back on his hands, his legs out straight and his back against the tall footboard of his bed.

**********

After a few tense minutes, Ron and Hermione came through the Floo, Ron livid and Hermione grim-faced.

“What’s this I hear about you breaking things off with my sister?” Ron growled, fists clenched and held down tight against his thighs.

“Yes, and over the floo! Say it isn’t true, Harry,” Hermione scolded.

Harry sighed and stood up wearily. He didn’t want to have to look up at them from his position on the floor—it made him feel weaker than he already felt and weary down to his bones.

“I didn’t want to do it, Ron. Hermione,” he said, looking into each of their eyes, determinedly and in turn. “But I had no choice. And right now, what with the way things are going, I don’t have the time. And it’s been so long, and there’s so much that she doesn’t understand about what we went through… but it doesn’t matter because I have things to do now. Things that don’t include her.”

Ron’s face flamed red, but Hermione had just noticed the packed trunk on his bed, and was opening her mouth to ask–

“Or you. I’m sorry, but what I’ve got to do has to remain a secret. From everybody.”

“But Harry!”

“Now wait a minute, mate. That’s not fair! My sis–”

“OH, JUST SHUT UP!”

And they fell quiet, their eyes wide and disbelieving. The way they looked at him, it was like they were suddenly realizing that war had changed him. That dying and coming back and slaying the most evil wizard of their time had somehow made their friend into something incomprehensible.

It made him angry.

“Don’t look at me like that! Merlin, but I just have something I have to do, and I can’t take you with me this time. So stop it! Stop looking at me like I’m not your friend anymore—I am! I’m just not the same Harry as I used to be before I died and killed and… and maybe it would help if you realized that and left me the hell alone about Ginny! It’s none of your business!”

“She’s family, Harry, and I thought you were, too! I thought you’d stay beside her after Fred… after Fred…” Ron seemed on the edge of tears, and before he could finish his sentence, Hermione jumped in.

“Harry, whatever it is you have to do, we can help! We’ve always been together, the three of us, and there’s nothing you can’t tell us. You know that. You know we can help.”

Harry looked into her earnest eyes helplessly. “You can’t, Hermione. You just can’t help this time. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but it’s like to be a while. I didn’t want you to worry, and I thought that bringing you here and telling you that I had to go would help, but I can see now that I was wrong. I’ve been wrong about a lot of things lately, and I’m sorry. That’s just how it is.”

Hermione nodded, eyes bright, and grabbed Ron, who looked like he was spoiling for a fight, by the arm. “I understand, Harry. I do know that you’re still our friend. You’re still Harry.”

“I don’t know about that–” Ron started, expression fierce.

“And when you get back, we can only hope that things will be the same,” Hermione continued, ignoring Ron’s interruption. “The war changed a lot of things, and maybe it’s just too fresh now. Maybe we still need healing. I thought we could do it together, but now I see I was wrong.”

She turned and grabbed a handful of Floo powder. “Goodbye, Harry. And good luck,” she said, her back to him, before flinging the powder into the fire and pulling Ron in bodily beside her.

“The Burrow!”

And then his friends were whirling away, and Harry turned back on the fireplace, a sharp pain in his heart wrenching a single, dry sob from deep inside him.

Hermione was right. The war was too fresh. The hurts still too deep. Losing Fred had changed something in Ron, and sending her parents away and making them forget her had changed something in Hermione, and Merlin forbid Harry go off and do something on his own because then he’d have changed, too, and where would they all be? Would they even know each other anymore?

Harry realized all this, but it was of little comfort to him now. Without a backwards glance at the fireplace, he flicked his wand to extinguish it and headed downstairs to tell Snape that he would be ready to leave in the morning.


*****Part Two: At Sea*****

Day One:

The ship left the pier, chugging sluggishly and spewing a large, black plume of smoke into the air.

Harry stood on the deck, watching Portsmouth Harbour slip away from him. It was incredible how much had happened in the last 24 hours. He’d found out that Snape was alive, agreed to help him, fought with Ginny, fought with Ron and Hermione, magically forged official government documents, been to London, ridden a train, and…

And now he was on a heavily loaded cargo ship, headed south. He was pretty sure that commercial passengers weren’t usually allowed on board a ship like this, but Snape had done some impressive sweet talking that had landed them on the first barge out of port and bound for Stanley, the capital of the Falkland Islands.

Harry snorted in laughter at the memory of Snape spinning that rubbish story—something about his dying mother, whose last wish was to see her long-lost son and her grandson, Harry, who she had never met. And when that young, attractive travel agent had patted Snape’s hand to comfort him! Snape’s solemn expression had threatened to break into a scowl, which just went to show that not much about Severus Snape, dour Potions professor, had changed despite his brush with death.

He’d even been too stubborn to ask for his memories back, although Harry was sure he missed them. He’d be sure to give them back to Snape, once he’d had one last view. Had he brought his Pensieve along? Or had he–

“Best get below deck, Potter. If one of the kind gentlemen steering this vessel trips over your trunk, we’ll never hear the end of it,” Snape said, appearing out of nowhere and interrupting his train of thought.

Harry took one last look at shore as it retreated on the horizon and then nodded his acquiescence. “Yeah, I’ll take it down…” he shook his head. “Where’s our room at, again?”

**********

Severus was surprised by how well things were progressing. He’d procured Potters’s help, managed to escape England without any trouble, and he was now well on his way to the Falkland Islands. Why his old advisor had seen fit to move to such an obscure, out of the way location, Severus had never been able to guess, but it served his purposes well now. Together, and in relative safety, they would find a cure for what was ailing him. He hadn’t been able to contact Master Blanch to officially solicit his help, but he knew where the man was residing due to their last correspondence four months hence (had it really been such a short time ago?), and he knew that Blanch’s penchant for never-before-seen phenomena would guarantee that he became involved.

The only hitch in his plans had been that the barge they secured passage on was not normally a passenger vessel, and as such had few rooms and sparse accommodations.

As evidenced by the miniscule room that Potter and himself had been squeezed into.

Severus scowled up at the mattress above him, mere inches from his nose, and resisted the urge to fidget. Just because Potter tossed and turned in his bunk, causing the springs to squeak and the bed to shake ominously above him, did not mean that Severus would reveal his own discomfort.

This had been his venture, after all, and he had asked for Harry’s assistance.

Instead of trying to get more comfortable, which was surely impossible under the circumstances, Severus closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. Unfortunately, he always had trouble relaxing in unfamiliar settings, and the gentle rocking of the boat and the close quarters that he’d been relegated to made him nervous.

Perhaps if he meditated a bit…

**********

Day Two:

A sound in the middle of the night had Severus jerking awake in a panic, reaching for his useless wand and sitting up–

“AAARRRGH!” he roared, after slamming his head against the upper bunk and rebounding back against his mattress.

“Bloody hell, Snape! Are you okay? I–”

The sound of a loud crash and then a long string of cursing met his ears, but Severus was too stunned to move. His head was throbbing in pain and his heart rate was through the roof. “Potter, I swear to Merlin…” he growled low and menacingly through clenched teeth.

A softly cast Lumos was heard and a sudden soft light made him squint. “I’m so sorry, Snape, really I am!” Harry was leaning down and peering at him, his hair wild and his wide, green eyes entirely too close. “I just had to make a trip to the loo, and I forgot where I was for a moment. It’s so damn dark in here, I fell right off the top bunk, and then into the bureau–”

“I. Don’t. Care.” he grit out, before closing his eyes and trying to will the pain in his head away.

“Your head is awfully red, sir. Do you want me to try a quick spell to –”

“Keep your wand away from me and kindly extinguish that light!” Severus hissed, voice too raw to shout and too damn frustrated to take the help that Harry was offering. He’d make him heal his sore head in the morning… he yawned, eyes still closed against the light of Harry’s wand.

Harry finally moved away, and Severus heard a soft click! as he closed the door to the small lavatory a short distance from their bunks. At the sound, he let out a breath of relief and settled back against his bed.

If only Harry wasn’t so eager to please, he wouldn’t be so annoying, Severus thought. He lifted his hair off his neck and let it fan out across his pillow, thoughts becoming blurry with sleep. He was sure that he had hurt Harry’s feelings—the young man was so sensitive… and now they’d be stuck together for quite some time, Harry walking on eggshells all the while.

He fidgeted a bit, straightening his sheets, and noticed that he had quite an impressive erection despite the painful awakening that he’d had. He hummed happily and drifted back to sleep, hoping that any pleasant dreams he’d been having would continue once he was adrift.

**********

The sun was at its zenith, and Harry and Severus were sitting on the deck of the ship. Occasionally a crewman would walk past, intent on securing the many crates and containers on board, all of them packed full of what looked like building materials, food and drink, and clothes. Harry had also noticed quite a few oil drums, which the crewmen checked compulsively for leaks.

Harry lowered his magazine, charmed to look like a regular Field & Stream Magazine, and fidgeted a bit in his deck chair. The skin of his bare back was sweaty and sticking to the cheap vinyl it was made from. He risked a glance at Snape, who was wearing one of Harry’s battered polo shirts and a pair of cargo shorts that Harry had purchased after the Final Battle, and Harry was once again shocked at how different the dour man looked in regular clothes. That weren’t black.

And his hair… his hair was tied back and held at the base of his neck, and Harry couldn’t help but stare at Snape’s jawline, followed by the long, elegant sweep of his neck. Although one side was mangled with scar tissue, the other was smooth and austere, in its own way. Harry let his eyes wander until he found himself staring at Snape’s crotch. Last night, Snape had sported a stiffie the size of –

He looked away quickly, face red, and cleared his throat. Unfortunately, this drew the unwanted attention of Snape’s piercing, black eyes to his flustered self.

He coughed and then looked down at the magazine in his lap. And then he blurted the first thing to pop into his head. “So, is there a reason we didn’t just take an aeroplane to the Falkland Islands? Or a portkey? Something to do with the curse?”

Severus snorted and looked away, but did not answer. The Quidditch magazine in his slender, pale hands rustled slightly as he turned a page.

“Because it would have been much faster to fly,” Harry commented in what he thought of as a reasonable tone.

Severus lowered the magazine, and his dancing black eyes and upturned lip made him seem almost amused. “The thought had crossed my mind, Harry. Unfortunately, the very idea of those steel tube deathtraps hurtling through the sky at insane speeds…” He shuddered, and Harry let out a surprised laugh. “Also, the curse is such that I can’t be sure of any magical means of travel.”

Harry hummed, brow furrowed. “I’ve never been on an aeroplane before. Have you?”

The magazine was raised again, this time hiding Snape’s expression. “Yes. And if you say anything more about it, I’ll pitch this useless magazine of yours over the side of the ship.”

“But I haven’t had a chance to read the featured article, yet!” Harry exclaimed, unsure of Snape’s sincerity, but worried all the same.

“Then kindly desist. If only I had my Potions journals…”

His wistful tone of voice made Harry smile, and he turned back to his own reading feeling strangely happy.

**********

When they went to bed that night, Severus was in a good mood for what felt like the first time in ages. His head was feeling better after the healing spells that Harry cast on it throughout the day, and he’d even got a bit of colour in his cheeks after spending the day outside. And perhaps it was the sea air, but he hadn’t had a true coughing fit in ages.

Little did he know that he’d be awakened again in the middle of the night, not by Harry falling, but by Harry’s screams.

**********

Day Three:

“It’s all your fault, Harry. If it wasn’t for you, Fred wouldn’t be dead. You were stalling and Fred died!” Ron shouted, face flushed with anger and twisted with spite. “Just another in a long string of fuck-ups!”

Everything was hazy except for Ron’s face, and Harry quailed at the sight.

But then another face was appearing beside it… Hermione! Surely she would defend him!

But her face was wracked with pain and frustration. “Oh Harry, how could you?” Hermione moaned, wringing her hands. “You let us down then and you’re letting us down now!”

“What do you mean?” Harry shouted. “What’s wrong now? I’ve tried so hard, really I have!” He was pleading with them, but they just shook their heads in disgust and closed their eyes, as if in defeat. “Do you need help? I’ll come help! Where are you?” Harry cried.

And then he could see where they were. Ron and Hermione. They were in some sort of dungeon…

“The Dark Lord will be so pleased with me now that I have you both!” a high, crazed voice exclaimed. “It’ll only be a matter of time before I have Potter and that traitor, too, and then my Master will be so pleased! So pleased with me!”

With an unholy cackle, Bellatrix appeared in the dungeon, a cruel-looking whip in her hand.

“No!” Harry gasped, so shocked that he could scarcely breathe.

Bellatrix couldn’t see him, but she was advancing on Hermione with frightening speed and purpose. “Now, feel my whip on your flesh, Mudblood – I know how much you’ve missed my touch!”

She snapped the whip and it flew through the air.

“No!” Harry shouted, “No! You’re dead! YOU’RE DEAD! NOOOO!”

And suddenly Harry was falling. He was falling into the darkness…

“Oomph!”

Someone… who was that? Had caught him.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, Potter. Are you trying to kill me?” a hoarse voice asked, intruding on his dream.

Harry came to awareness in Severus’ arms, though his legs were still caught up in the sheets on his bunk. “Huh? But . . . Ron and Hermione . . .”

“I assure you, Harry, you were having a nightmare. Now go back to sleep.” And with that, he shoved Harry back up on his bed.

Harry found that he hadn’t really minded being in Severus’ arms. The other man had felt . . . strong despite his illness. He listened, half awake, as Severus grumbled to himself. The lower half of the bunk bed creaked, sheets rustled, and then a great sigh broke the night.

“Good night, Harry.”

Harry smiled to himself in the dark. “Good night, Severus,” he mumbled.

He was mostly asleep when Severus began coughing fitfully, and did not hear him go to the lav for a towel to wipe the sprays of blood off his hands.

**********

Day Six:

They were sitting in their deck chairs again, enjoying the brisk sea air and letting time pass idly by. The last few days had passed in relative silence, as Severus and Harry read and basked in the sun at their leisure, and today had begun no differently. Severus thought that it was quite nice not to be forced into conversation, especially when his throat was still raw and he was prone to coughing fits.

He had been staring out at the sea for some time and imagining that, once cured, he could escape to a tropical paradise and live in peaceful solitude for the rest of his days. It was an engaging fantasy, one that he had found himself indulging in more and more of late. No one would know to look for him, and he could –

“Why are they shipping all of this stuff down to the Falkland Islands, anyway?”

Severus grunted and hoped that Harry would take the hint and shut up. Harry’s voice, though not as irritating as it had been in his adolescence, was intruding on a particularly peaceful moment. He had just been imagining himself, alone on an island somewhere. Once alone, he could read at his leisure. Perhaps continue his Potions research and submit his work under an alias –

“I mean, it seems an awfully long way to ship stuff like food and clothes…”

Severus made no sound, but continued to stare out at the open sea. His mind was awhirl with possibilities. An alias wouldn’t be so hard to operate under. Potions Masters were a notoriously solitary group, and the quality of one’s work was always evident just by –

“And how much longer are we going to be on this boat? Aren’t there any stops? I’ve run out of mags and –”

“No, Potter,” Severus snapped, finally too irritated to ignore the young man at his side. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Harry jump.

“Oh! Um…”

Severus watched the waves in silence for a bit longer, and he thought that he could see dark shadows under their surface. Fish or rays or dolphins… all such interesting, alien creatures.

“Um… what exactly were you saying ‘no’ to?” Harry inevitably asked.

Severus sighed and let his gaze drift back to the boat, to Harry and his inquisitive green eyes. “Our ‘cruise,’ Harry, will be another nine days. We will be making no recreational stops along the way, as this ship’s main purpose is to transport cargo.” He waved around him, indicating the many crates that crowded their small deck area. “The Falkland Islands are a small British territory, and they have little in the way of raw materials. Their population is also quite low. As you know, we are travelling there to meet with my old advisor, Professor Blanch.”

“Oh.”

Severus raised one eyebrow and gave the young man a sarcastic smirk. “Now, were you actually interested in knowing that information? Or were you only intent on bothering me with your incessant questions?”

Harry’s eyes flashed and his expression hardened. “It didn’t seem like I was interrupting much, sir, and I’ve run out of things to do. I didn’t think that starting a conversation would be so hard on you!” And with that he turned his head and crossed his arms, the picture of petulance.

Severus rolled his eyes. Why did everything have to be so difficult with Harry? “I’ve always enjoyed quiet when I could get it. Especially after I began working as a Professor,” he said, hoping it was enough of a peace offer for the other man.

Harry turned his head a bit, obviously listening for something more.

Severus sighed and decided to eat his crow and move on. “I suppose I was a bit rude,” he admitted grudgingly, “but I was thinking about my tentative future. Would you…” and here he had to push himself, “would you care to play a game of chess? I have an old set that I managed to salvage from my family home.”

At the invitation, Harry turned and smiled. “Sure, Severus! It’ll be great having something to do, that’s for sure.”

Severus nodded and then struggled out of his deck chair. “I’ll go fetch it then. See if you can find a small card table for us to set it on, will you?” He cleared his throat, not from impatience, but from necessity. It seemed like his earlier lecture was taking its toll on his vocal chords.

Harry looked at him oddly for a moment and then, as if seeing something that he liked, he nodded to Severus and stood, beginning his search happily. Severus, for his part, moved away as quickly as possible, his emotions in sudden turmoil. Harry’s smile and the way he had called him by his first name…

He began to cough lightly as he headed to their room, and pulled out a handkerchief to shield his mouth. All of this camaraderie – it meant nothing to him, not really. Severus was just trying to keep things companionable between them so that they could get to his advisor’s house in one piece, that was all. It was for the good of the voyage.

It wasn’t like Harry was his friend.

Because one thing was for sure: Harry couldn’t possibly like him. Harry, who was an admittedly honourable man, was only doing this in return for all of the things Severus had done for him in the past.

No, Harry wasn’t his friend. The only friends he’d ever had were dead by his own hand.

**********

After their third chess match, Harry was ready to call it quits. “You’re even better than Ron was,” he grumbled, turning over the few black pieces he had managed to capture.

Severus snorted. “I’m not sure how much weight that statement holds, but I’ll take it as a compliment,” he said, taking the intricately carved pieces with obvious care.

Harry smiled wryly and watched as Severus turned over the tall, wooden board. It was hollow on the inside, with green velvet lining, and it had two hinges along the middle that allowed it to be folded in half and closed. “That’s an interesting Muggle chessboard you have, there,” Harry commented, his voice rising in pitch at the end, as if asking a question. He hadn’t said anything earlier when Severus had set the board up because the air had been full of a strange tension then, and he hadn’t felt comfortable breaking it.

Severus hummed to himself, but didn’t elaborate on the chessboard or its origins. His black eyes were intent on the pieces as he placed them carefully inside their own, specially shaped indentations in the green, velvet lining.

After a few more moments of silence, in which Severus was still busy fingering each piece as if it held its own memory, Harry wrestled out of his cheap, plastic deck chair, stood, and stretched his back, which was sore from stooping over the low table where they’d set the chessboard. “I think I’ll have a kip in our room now. Think you can wake me for dinner?”

Severus nodded distractedly and Harry took that for a yes.

**********

Day Eight:

When Harry opened his eyes, all he could see was darkness. But he could hear. He could hear water dripping somewhere nearby, and something… someone was groaning. “H-Hello?” Harry called into the darkness, voice tremulous. He was in what felt like a bed, but it was very small. And he felt closed in, as if the ceiling were very close.

He was too afraid to move.

Another groan, and now Harry could tell that whoever it was that was in pain was below him. Somewhere. “W-who’s there?” he whispered. He could hear his heartbeat in his head, pounding fiercely and making his neck twitch in time to its crazy rhythm. He clutched his hand against his throat and tried not to panic. If he could just find out where he was, he could escape. Find help.

“Ooooh, so goooood.”

Oh. Oh god. He was on a boat. With Snape. Who was in the bunk below him having a wet dream. Oh for Merlin’s sake. He turned over in his bed and punched his pillow a few times. He hadn’t had a scare like that since just after the war. When he’d woken up on the floor in his new, dark bedroom and thought that he was back in that dungeon…

He pressed his face against his pillow and shuddered in the darkness. He could hear Severus in the bunk below, fucking his mattress in his sleep, and his own hips moved slightly. His cock was hard, too. Probably just from waking up in the middle of the night. He pressed against his own mattress, shivered in arousal, but then made himself stop. He wouldn’t get off while Snape was in the same room. Or at the same time as the bastard, either.

He forced his hips to still. And then he drifted off…

**********

Harry had been acting strange all day. Severus glanced at Harry from the corner of his eye, but the young man was simply lying in his own deck chair, eyes closed against the glare of the sun. Severus closed his own eyes and sighed. Harry hadn’t initiated a single conversation, which made for a pleasantly quiet morning. On the other hand, breakfast in the galley had been strained, as the rest of the crew was meeting in the captain’s quarters for a briefing.

For a fleeting instant, just as sleep took him, Severus wondered if Harry’s odd behaviour had anything to do with the wet dream that he’d had during the night. It would be too embarrassing to bear if Harry had somehow heard him. Perhaps he should start masturbating again, if only to avoid any more nighttime emissions…

**********

The sun was noticeably lower on the horizon when Severus awoke on the deck. Alone.

Severus came to attention quickly and, after rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he stood. His neck was sore, and he massaged it carefully as he walked back to his and Harry’s room, ire rising as he walked purposefully. Didn’t Potter understand that being his protector entailed actually being there when he was at his most vulnerable, i.e. asleep?

It was unacceptable.

He reached the door to their room and pushed it open without knocking, a scathing remark on his lips –

but no one was there. He looked around the small room, disconcerted for a moment, before hearing a sound that had him spinning on his heels. A moan! It had come from behind the lavatory door, and it sounded like Harry was in pain. He had to –

His hand was on the doorknob when he heard it. Low but distinct. “Ooooh, fuck yeah. Like that…”

Blood rushed to Severus’ face and his hand moved off of the doorknob so quickly it was if he’d been burned. Harry was… he was… pleasuring…

“Mmm…” a groan, “So clossssse…”

The sibilant sound of Harry’s voice was too much for him. Severus fled their room, hand pressed against his cock as if to keep its straining length at bay.

**********

Harry noticed that Severus was acting oddly at dinner. While still embarrassed by what he had heard the night before, Harry was feeling much better after his late afternoon wank. He’d let it go for too long, really, and the tension must have gotten to him more than he’d thought it would. Healthy teenage boys needed to wank regularly, after all, and he’d just need to find a few moments alone each day to take care of things.

He smiled at Severus across his dinner plate, and mistook Severus’ resulting blush as a mild case of sun poisoning.

**********

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