Wind rustled the papers from the open window. The summer heat was exhausting making the back of my neck sweaty and still I wore black, my sleeves as long as the tail of my cloak. It was nice. I had always loved summer, despite everything.

I had grown out of wearing Dudley's hand-me-downs. My black pants were baggy and breathable, tucked into by heavy army boots. My black tank top was form fitting, ribbed and smelling freshly of the soap I had used to launder it with.

The pencil in my hand paused. Everywhere, strewn about the room, were accounts, documents, and files that I had written. The pages were stacked haphazardly, in constant danger of tipping over, but even when they did, I managed only to stack them in the same disorganized pile again.

It didn't really matter. I was only writing for the pure sake of writing.

With the window open, I could hear Ron laughing. The townhouse we had bought was large of enough for the three of us without making my homey nature uncomfortable. The road leading to the small town that broached our private home was made of dirt. Grassy fields roamed to either side and I could make out the tall grass, elegant in the sway of the breeze.

I followed their arch as it landed on my two best friends. They were happy, twenty-two and alive. They teased and joked easily. The wind followed them and ran ahead, reaching my window before they did. They looked up. With happy smiles, they waved.

The hand over my mouth, which I had placed in thought, rose like a foreign thing. Their happy faces were unencumbered, their gazes free. It always struck me how alive we were. After all this time, after everything, we each had two hands to make with world what we wished, two legs to go where we may.

We were free.

It took little packing. For all the papers I had written, I took none of them with me. My suitcase was full with two shirts, one white and one black, my wand, which I no longer carried with me like a cross, and the complete set of Lord of the Rings.

When I descended the stairs I could hear Ron hammering the nail into the wall where the picture Hermione had framed of us had fallen. They were talking to each other, smiling, but it didn't take much for their eyes to find me. Their brows furrowed, taking in the single suitcase and the long dark cloak over the shoulder.

"Harry?" Ron called, lowering the hammer. "What are you doing?"

"I'm just stepping out for a bit."

"With a suitcase?" he said. "Where are you going?"

I turned. Really, everything here was so beautiful. There were no nightmares, no shadows, or haunts or ugliness. I looked at him through my glasses, the thin wire frames prescription brand. He had the same red hair that I loved. Freckles dotted his nose. He had grown, his limbs finally matching him. His jaw was strong and his eyes bright.

Hermione stood behind him, grown as well. Just as beautiful as the day I had met her, though it felt now like we had always been together.

"Don't worry. I'm fine."

The train ride was soothing. Clouds rode behind me as the cars darted invisibly through the midday sky. It was cooler up here in the air-conditioned corridors. It reminded me of Hogwarts and how excited I was to finally be going home.

I thought about you on the trip. I thought about what you said and what you did and I smiled.

When the train lowered altitude, pulling perfectly into an old station at the edge of nowhere, I couldn't help but feel as if I had gained something in the hours I had sat staring at the clouds and the occasional white bird that glided on the currents running between us.

There were no signs and only a dilapidated path led off the main road, but I knew where I was going. The trees were thicker here. Once I would have found them foreboding and sinister, but now I could only think of those silly treks in the Forbidden Forest. It was strange to think I had been so young.

The cottage was derelict. Wild herbs and ivy coated its sides wildly. I could tell that there was no electricity, that everything was powered by magic and used only when needed. The only thing in moderate upkeep was the garden, which flourished richly.

Dirt crunched beneath my boot. The door was solid oak. It was unsanded and the knocker was rusty mint green. The windows were dark but I knew you were there. I knocked, rising the old brass twice, and waited.

I could hear footsteps within as you approached. The door opened. You were the same from when I was eleven. Dark and slick but disheveled, matted hair leaking over your ears and above your shoulders. You had trimmed it. It was a little higher. You were still taller than me and thinner. Your skin had gained somewhat of a tan, or if not a tan then it was not as sallow. You actually looked like you breathed.

You were wiping your hands on a towel. You were in muggle attire, your white button-up sleeves rolled to your elbows, the top button undone. Your black slacks were smudged with dirt and small wrinkles.

You were surprised to see me but you masked it well. You stood back, putting the towel away and further opening the door.

"Come in."

Your home was modest. It missed decent lighting, but I don't suppose that bothered you much. Books lined every available wall space, making it warmer than it appeared on the outside. The furniture was a dark herb green, the leather patched in many places. The rug was worn but was durable and soft.

I set my suitcase down. You sat the towel on the arm of a chair, sitting beside it.

"It's been a while, Potter."

"Yes," I agreed. "And here I'd thought you'd have killed me by now."

The words were spoken softly, like a private joke and you smiled. I didn't sit, preferring to stand.

"I seem to recall, that you wanted to know what was going to happen after The-Boy-Who-Lived died."

You looked down thoughtfully at the floor, no doubt remembering everything you had said that night in your desperate attempt to save me.

"Well, let's hear it."

I smiled, stepping forward. I brushed my lips against yours and you remained still on the arm on your sagging leather chair. I leaned in, winding my arms around your neck.

I pulled away to smile at you. "I came here."

The night that you almost broke me, I finally realized what you had been trying to tell me. I had cried and screamed like a newborn. I had begged you to stop, but you knew, didn't you? You knew that as horrible as it was, as painful, that I would rely on that connection you forced between us. You knew that someday I would be able to recognize what you had been trying to say.

I felt your eyes on me, and the gaze that had once degraded me was no longer scary. Your black eyes were like the bottom of an ink well. The meager light shone off of them, giving them a quiet smolder. It was no longer so penalizing, counting flaws and inadequacies. I could meet them head on and see all the things you never said, couldn't say because not only was I unable to comprehend, we were not ready.

You always knew I would survive. You knew and you gave me the promises that I needed to continue.

You moved, stretching your legs so that I leaned between them.

You didn't think I would come back though. It was important enough that I survived. You didn't think that I would remember or would delve deep enough inside myself to know what I really wanted. Save that one time, you did not push. You led me to my own path, and you let me choose to walk it.

Your hand came up, cradling the side of my jaw.

"Does this mean that the spell is broken?"

I smiled, closing my eyes and leaning into your touch. "Yeah."

The kiss burned me just as thoroughly as the first one had. This one was languid. The rush of survival and war was gone. I could feel your hands cradling my back and pushing my spine. You drank from my mouth, sucking my tongue inside your mouth. My hands could only run through your hair.

The feeling of impossibility had never left me. I don't think it ever will. You loved me. You had always loved me. I could feel it in the way your tongue scorched my neck. The train of saliva cooled where you burned.

The scorn you felt, the contempt for everything I was, could not survive your love. I was blown away by it. It seemed inconceivable. That a man like you could ever love a man like me. I would think this way and then I would hear your voice, chiding me. You would tell me how foolish I was being, assuming that I could categorize people into little boxes 'like this' and 'like that,' and the feeling would go away.

The impossible became possible, but it was still unbelievable. I had never imagined that someone could see the worse sides of me and still care for me so deeply. I was rotten, stained and instead of picking me up and polishing me off, you accepted every one of my flaws as if they were truths.

Holding your face between my hands, I could not describe how beautiful you were to me. I traced the lines of your face and it was simply euphoric that you let me. You lifted up the side of my cloak. The loosened shoulders slid down, revealing my tank top. I still had the muscles I gained from war but they were softened by the months I had spent with Ron and Hermione in Italy. They were more natural now than forced.

The cloak hung onto my elbows because I didn't want to let you go, not even for the second it would take to let the inches of cloth fall to the floor. We were unrushed, but I felt like every second mattered. I was given this beautiful thing and I didn't want to let go.

You indulged me just this once, pulling me up with you as you stood. My body slid down yours, all hard lines and cloth.

I had grown since then and I knew you noticed. I knew that you had seen this shadow of me, hiding inside the shell of youth. That you were the only one to see it. You were the only one who knew I would live to grow this old.

You knew I would win what I was fighting for.

You picked me up by my hips and I wrapped my legs around you. My boots clunked together. You laid me across the desk. It was not unlike that night in your office, though I had been bent, not laid. Your lips attached to my neck, beginning a lazy pull across my jugular. I set my heels on the edge of the desk. You fit between my thighs, settling there with an unfounded practice. As if you knew precisely where you were meant to be. From the very start.

Your hands lifted up the hem of my tank top. They ran along my sides, giving me bumps. I finally released your neck, comfortable in the warmth of your body pushing against my belly and between my legs. You lips moved down my neck to my collarbone. My shirt was meshed, uneven and barely there at all. My hands crowned either side my face, lying palms up on the dark wood.

My skin jumped. I knew you could feel my beating heart racing against your fingertips. There was light outside the window above my head. The shadow ended just above my head where my wild hair, still untamed but longer, gave my crown a dark halo. Stretching my neck I could see the tip of the sky above the tall trees.

It was blue and clear. Automatically, my hand reached out. It slid over the top of the desk for the empty air. It shocked me to feel your hand. You held my wrist, stopping its ascent. I stared at it. Thin, agile fingers caressed the underside of my wrist. Gentle and soothing, holding me down with something as soft as your subtle persuasion.

I looked at you. You were staring at me, eyes deep as ancient wells. I couldn't stop the tears from forming. They slid over my cheeks, pooling in my ears. I smiled at you. You held me down, grounded me when everyone else was teaching me to fly. When I wanted to run, filled with the urge to break, you grabbed me and held me in place. You reminded me that I wasn't perfect, that flying only lasts so long before we fall.

You covered my mouth as our hands intertwined. You rocked me until I was hot, panting. I finally disentangled my hands to hold your face. You braced yourself on the desk. I could feel your thighs quivering.

"I love you."

You smiled at me like you thought it was obvious, but you kissed me in gratitude, knowing that I was the type of person that needed to have my emotions explained. Even if you weren't.

I loved you. Severus Snape. Thank you. For letting me love you.