The sun bathed the whole landscape in gold, soft and warm. It glinted off the lake, far below the rolling hills. The British weather came in for a lot of criticism and he definitely had complained about it at great length, but nothing could ever change the fact that British summers could be beautiful. It was neither too hot nor too cold, with a breeze gently spreading the scents of freshly cut grass and flowers through the trees, rustling the leaves in a loving caress.

The path, winding up through the woodland from the village by the lake, was not the easiest route up the hill. The man pausing both for breath and also to admire the dramatic scenery spread out before him acknowledged to himself that a significant reason for choosing the winding woodland path was not through practicality but rather through sentimentality. With an almost wry grin that no one was there to see, he accepted that his life thus far could be summed up as choosing the most difficult option whenever there was a choice to be made. By this point he knew himself too well and doubted it was a characteristic he would ever be able to change. Sometimes it worked out well, but often there was a certain amount of suffering involved.

He brushed back his dark hair, musing that it was a little long and he should probably cut it at some point. He rubbed the large scar on his neck, massaging it gently. It still tended to itch occasionally, and was stiff a lot of the time. It was, however, a minor irritation compared to what it had once been, and for that he was eternally grateful. He didn't like the way it looked, the way it spread from his jaw to down below his collar bone, not a clear wound but a tangled mess. Even though it had faded, it was still visible enough that he drew the occasional stare, but by now he had made his peace with the mark that covered the right of his neck, that even his hand could not hide.

Despite the scar, he wore a plain green T-shirt with a normal, open neck. Too much of his life had been spent hiding in fear. He was not ashamed of the scar, it was a part of him and he had accepted it. He had accepted the startled looks, the curiosity. He wasn't hiding anymore. Any more clothing would have made the hike up the hill an unpleasantly hot affair, but the T-shirt was just right for the weather and the walk. His jeans were old and a little frayed at the hem, but comfortable. His trainers were nothing glamorous, practical shoes he could walk in with no trouble. The trudge along the path had resulted in some mud, which didn't bother him. Nature and the beauty that came with it included mud. To sanitise the dramatic glory of the woods would lose something of the romance for him. The world was dirty, and there was nothing wrong with that. Beautiful fields often smelt of sheep, cows and manure. Flies congregated on corpses and shit in equal measures. Life had taught him that idealism was a luxury, that true beauty and inner peace came from the acceptance of the good and the bad.

He felt thirty-seven. It was a strange sensation. Too much of his life, he'd spent feeling too old for his actual age or too young. Torn between having to take responsibilities on at a young age, to face issues and problems far beyond the ones he should and the odd realisation that he'd never truly grown up, never matured into an adult in the way that normal people got a chance to. But now, after everything, here on the path he knew that he finally felt free. He finally felt at peace. He felt like himself, like he'd finally discovered who he was. And he was thirty-seven.

With a contented sigh, he swung his rucksack back onto his back. On the one hand, he knew he was being ridiculous in having packed so much into it knowing that he would be climbing up the steep hill through the gorgeous scenery. On the other, he knew that he had packed very little to bring with him, that a larger bag and an alternative route would have been far wiser. But no matter how much he may have tried or pretended to be otherwise, he was more sentimental that he let on, especially now. He had dreamt and fantasised about this walk up this hill for far too long to consider any alternative.

The last year in particular had taken its toll on him. He'd survived, but it had taken more of him than he had expected. What lay up the hill, at the end of the woodland path, amongst the sheer peaks had kept him going. It had helped him hold everything together when he thought he might fall apart, disintegrate to nothing. It had made him plan for this, his return. He had dreamt of his welcome for so long now, he almost couldn't bear it. The long hike up both helped him prepare himself, helped him accustom himself to this place once more. It brought him the calmness of nostalgia, the strange choking sadness of the past. It also built the tension, coiling deep in the pit of his stomach, drawing out the stress. Drawing out the moments until he arrived at his final destination. It was raising the drama of the act, from the simplicity it could have been to something with a flair. At this stage in his life, he could admit to himself, even if he were reluctant to do so to others, that he was something of a drama queen. This was the correct way, to his mind. It was the truest acknowledgment of himself, of the significance this hike and his final destination held to him.

He tried, amongst the hawthorn bushes either side of the path, to focus on the positive. The welcome that awaited him, that he prayed with every fibre of his being to all manner of deities he could never believe it, would be a warm one. He tried to not let the regrets for the past intrude on his thoughts, to let the longing show him alternative paths in his life he could have taken. He tried to forgive himself, as he often did, for the mistakes he felt he had made. Even more than that, he hoped that one day he could put his demons to rest and receive forgiveness from the only person he truly needed to hear it from. He knew all the excuses, the ones he had used to reassure others over the years when they too felt they had transgressed into the unforgivable, that he had been young. He had been lost. The memories never left him, or that slight sense of shame. A part of him always felt that it was beyond forgiveness, that to be forgiven would destroy the last remaining elements of him and shatter his very soul. In some perverse way, it was the guilt that kept him going, that drove him on. It was the feelings of penance that made him act, that had him walking up the hill. Only common sense prevented him from removing his shoes and doing it barefoot, which seemed more fitting for this pilgrimage through the best and the worst of himself, hidden deep amongst the soft birdsong.

Maybe, he thought idly, maybe now he'd have a chance to learn the names of the birds that sung around him, identify their different plumage. He tried to think of the future, but it always seemed like a gaping blank. Absolution was the only future he both hoped and dreaded, the only thing that lingered out of reach that he dared not grasp for. His mind caught in the eternal conflict between the ecstasy of being so close to his destination and the abject horror of taking the final steps, he stepped out of the woods, the path having led him out of them. To his left, the scenery fell away, sweeping downwards towards the glittering lake. To his right, the hill continued up in gentle rolls. He continued, one foot ahead of the other, as he had done all his life. He drank in the beauty of the landscape, but dared not linger too long incase his courage failed him and the journey onwards became harder still.

Breathing in the calm of the fresh air, full of so many competing scents ranging from the mild dampness of the leaves on the ground to the hint of sheep, he regarded the house before him. The woodland path had left him not far from the house's spacious garden, the old wooden gate of which he softly opened, noting the way it creaked as he let himself into the garden. The garden spread out before him, lawns interspersed with vegetable gardens and beds of all manner of wild flowers. It smelt heavenly, the richness of the soil surrounding his senses. The gentle clucking of chickens drifted lazily from the modest chicken coop. His footsteps crunched on the gravel as he walked along the garden path, choosing the path that wound around the house towards the front door. It was a reasonably sized house, built of the traditional rough stones left bare. The front door was neatly white-washed, though he hesitated briefly to look down the drive that led up to it, the route he had chosen not to take, the direct route out in the open. Breathing in once again, savouring the unmistakable cleanness of the countryside air, he faced the door, set his backpack on the doorstep beside him and rang the doorbell.

As he waited, he held his emotions in check. He dreaded and yearned for the opening of the door and all possible outcomes. He dreaded and yearned for the unspoken forgiveness of a warm welcome. He dreaded and yearned for anger and recriminations for the past. He dreaded and yearned for everything beyond the door as it opened abruptly and before his eyes stood a vision he had dreamed of, a vision whose pictures he had spent more time than he would ever admit pouring over. The woman before him was older than when he had last seen her with his own eyes, though she would undoubtably say the same for him. It did nothing to detract from her simple beauty. Her hair was still red, longer now and braided in a messy braid. Her clothing was as normal and rustic as her surroundings, plain jeans and a neatly fitted t-shirt, both liberally dusted with flour.

She gasped, her face awash with an agonised delight, and she flung her arms around him. He felt her warm embrace, like a pair of old pyjamas so comfortable he could spend the rest of his life in them, the gentle softness of her form replacing the memory of the harsh gauntness of grief that she'd been when he last held her wrapped tightly in his arms in their twenties. He inhaled the sweet smell of cinnamon that radiated from her, the welcoming aroma of baking. She drew back, a look of broken affection on her fair, freckled face as they gazed at each other. Gently, without a word, she drew him into the house.

He dumped his rucksack in the corner of the porch, amongst a variety of gardening tools and kicked off his shoes, bending to place them on the shoe rack, stuffing them along with the selection of hiking boots, wellies and trainers. Throughout it all, he did not let go of her hand, gently pulling him inwards. The wallpaper of the hallway was old and faded, a faint trace of a pattern remaining hidden amongst the dull cream. The hall itself was sparse but spacious, nothing littering the dark green carpet. She led him through the plain white door adorned with rabbit pictures to the kitchen. It was old, but serviceable with a rustic simplicity. The tiles beneath his feet were a dull black and cool even through his socks.

"Severus," she said almost breathlessly as she entered the kitchen with him in tow, "Severus, Harry's home,"