"You're late."

The figure sliding into the secluded booth gave a huff that fell somewhere between amusement and annoyance. "Well, if you will schedule our meetings in a pub that's so out of the way that I have to wait for much too long for a group big enough to enter the place…" he said. "Unless, of course, you want to have to arrest me?"

Kingsley Shacklebolt scowled at his friend. "We agreed not to mention that," he said.

There was a pause, then, "So we did," Severus Snape agreed, in a way that in anybody else would have been apologetic. He then promptly spoilt the illusion by adding, "But we can't avoid it forever, Kin. At some point, unless something happens very soon, you're almost guaranteed to have to arrest me—"

"That doesn't mean that I have to ruin my day by talking about it now," Kingsley pointed out. "Now shut up and decide what you're drinking."

"Whatever's on tap." Severus watched as Kingsley slid from the booth and made his way over to the bar, leaning on it as he struck up what looked like a mildly flirtatious conversation with the female bartender.

Severus shook his head. Sometimes it beggared belief that Kingsley had ever been the small, scrawny second-year Ravenclaw that Severus had come across in the library near the end of his fifth year, frustratedly attempting to decipher a beginner's Ancient Runes book in a bid to make his mind up whether to take the course as an elective the following year.

Discovering that the boy was a half-blood like himself, Severus had pointed him in the direction of an Arithmancy book. Those who had ties to the Muggle world tended to do much better with Arithmancy – which, after all, was only magical maths – than with Ancient Runes. Their friendship had blossomed from there.

"You look deep in thought," Kingsley's voice interrupted, as he placed two glasses on the table between them. "Does it hurt?"

"Just because you can't string a sentence together without a week's preparation," Severus retorted, drawing one towards him. He didn't bother taking a sip, but merely curled his hands around the glass.

Kingsley laughed, and lifted the other glass. "You know," he began, after a long sip that some people – although not Severus, obviously – would uncharitably call a gulp, "Black's memorial is next weekend."

"Now you're just trying to ruin my day," Severus complained. He drew the glass even further towards him. "Just for that, you don't get mine. Go get your own if you want another."

"You don't even drink alcohol," Kingsley pointed out, grinning, then he sobered. "You know Dumbledore will want you to attend."

Severus scowled down at the glass of beer that he wouldn't be drinking (didn't want to follow in his father's footsteps, after all). "It doesn't matter what Dumbledore wants," he said. "It's not safe for me to attend. Not to mention hypocritical. I'd rather celebrate the mutt's death than his life." He looked up and caught sight of Kingsley's wince. "I'm sorry, Kin, but you know it's true," he said.

"Well, you wouldn't have to say exactly what you were celebrating," said Kingsley, trying on a smile. It didn't last for long.

"Kingsley," Severus murmured, "you know the main reason that it's . . . unwise for me to attend Black's memorial."

Kingsley scowled at him. "Severus," he warned. "We agreed—"

"Kingsley," repeated Severus, more sternly, and Kingsley abruptly closed his mouth. "Much as you'd like to, we can't avoid it forever. The Dark Lord has returned, and there is a very great possibility that, one day fairly soon, you will be coming to arrest me."

"Not if I can help it," Kingsley muttered into his glass as he finished it off.

Severus' mouth twitched, but that was all the sign he showed that Kingsley's comment had amused him. "You shouldn't have risen so fast through the Auror ranks then, should you," he said. "Nor become so good at catching Death Eaters."

"You aren't a Death Eater!" Kingsley protested, putting his glass down hard enough that it was a miracle it didn't shatter into pieces. Several of the other pub patrons glanced their way, and Kingsley leaned closer to Severus. "You don't need catching," he hissed.

"This," Severus rested his right hand over his left forearm, "says that I do." He eyed Kingsley steadily. "You know Mad-Eye will pick you for the team. It will come eventually, Kin. The only way to stop it is to stop the Dark Lord, and Potter's not ready yet."

Kingsley muttered something under his breath that Severus didn't catch, but he was fairly certain that it was not complimentary, whoever it was directed towards.

Studying his friend – who was now ranting something about "Dumbledore" and, bizarrely, "Bali" – Severus reluctantly came to the conclusion that he'd feared would eventually come. Kingsley was incredibly loyal to Dumbledore and the Order, as proved by his actions with the silly Ravenclaw chit several months ago, but Severus feared that if it came down to a choice between the 'right' side and Severus, then Kingsley's friendship would cause him to make the wrong choice. Kingsley was, aside from Dumbledore, the only person who knew the truth of Severus' activities when it came to the Dark Lord and his circle of followers; if Kingsley refused to do his part, it could put him in danger of losing the career he'd worked so hard for, or – worse – in physical danger from the Dark Lord himself.

"Severus?" Kingsley waved a hand in front of his face. "You in there?"

"I'm sorry, Kingsley," Severus said. "I have to go." He stood up, and Kingsley reached up to grip his forearm in their traditional greeting. It was an act of trust between most wizards, as if they carried a wand holster then it was usually worn around the right forearm. Of course, both Severus and Kingsley were proficient with using their wand in either hand, but the intent of the gesture remained the same. "I'm sorry," Severus repeated, laying his other hand on Kingsley's shoulder.

After all, he was proficient at wandless magic, too.

"Obliviate," he whispered, and left who had arguably been his best friend sitting in the secluded booth, blinking in bemusement at the two glasses on the table in front of him.

Now Kingsley would be safe.

Two years later, standing beside an unmarked grave, Kingsley Shacklebolt remembered a decade of friendship, and wept.