AN: This one is a bit longer. If I'm not explaining any bit properly, just let me know. It makes sense in my head, and sometimes I forget to put everything down on paper. Thanks for the support and the reviews!

Chapter Four - Absinthe is Not Your Friend

After four and a half weeks of living at Cairn Hollow, Snape was accustomed to the Moods of Potter. During the day he was actually quite civil and, as Snape loathed to admit: mature. He had definitely grown up into a man over the past year, instead of an irritating adolescent. He was a considerate roommate, keeping the house tidier than Snape had expected he would, and a rather excellent cook. Snape even found that he was beginning to enjoy the conversations and company of Potter. It was yet another thought that kept him up thinking at night.

There was one mood, however, that Snape noticed more than the other changes. Whenever he came home from a Ministry function, all Snape could feel was a blanket of despair upon the cottage. Harry rarely spoke, but the dejection in his face was quite evident as he stormed up the stairs, where he'd take a bath and then toss and turn in the bed. Around three in the morning Snape would walk down to the room and sit in the chair by the fire for the rest of the night, ending whatever nightmare Harry was experiencing and letting him sleep till morning.

This night was different though, and Snape sensed it as soon as he heard the crack of apparition. Harry landed in the kitchen violently, stumbling into the table and looking as if he was about to throw up. Though he had grasped the chair in a death grip, Snape noted that his entire body was shaking. Blood ran down Harry's left arm, and there was a puddle against his shirt at his shoulder, where something had done quite a bit of damage. His face was very white, and he looked to be minutes from passing out. Something at the ministry had gone very wrong.

Harry barely heard Snape's movements over the loud fuzzy noise in his ears and the pulsing pain above his heart. He was vaguely aware of being shoved into a chair, before something in cobalt glass bottle rushed by his head and was caught deftly by quick reflexes. The bottle was lifted to his lips and poured in, feeling icy cold as it slipped down his throat. Only after it was down did Harry realize how bitter the taste was, offering both a grimace and a cough. The cotton in his ears abated slowly with the pain, and he became aware of Snape's hands on his shoulders, pulling him up to his feet.

"Upstairs. I need to fix your arm."

The hands stayed on Harry's sides as he swayed out the door and was steered towards the landing. Harry shrugged, trying to loosen the grip, but Snape remained very close behind him.

"Gerroff. I'm not a toddler."

"You're injured, Potter. I will not have you tumbling arse over teakettle down the stairs and creating more work for me."

No further argument was offered, as Harry did find it difficult to keep level on the stairs, and was grateful when he was shoved down on his bed. Snape made quick gentle work of removing his shirt, though could not keep a small gasp back as he inspected the injury. Right below the shoulder joint and just above the rib cage, on Potter's left side, was a large knife wound.

"What happened? Was it a cursed knife?"

All Harry managed to mumble was an "I don't know" as Snape disinfected the stab wound, pouring a potion inside before moving his wand over the mark and saying a small incantation.

"Was it a spell?"

"Flying knife." Harry's skin was pale white, and his eyes were drooping. The pain potion's mild sedative combined with shock would probably knock him out for the rest of the night, Snape realized, and he'd have to wait until morning to get the full story.

"No women, don't want them." Harry was mumbling, slurring his words. "Crazy."

Snape quirked his eyebrow, but said nothing as Harry finally passed out.

After fully wrapping the shoulder and checking to see that no poison was taking hold, Snape left the room and went to his own. He stalked around in front of the dresser, trying to remember what function Harry had been at that evening. A fundraiser of some sort, held at the Ministry. There must have been aurors there, though, because with a few Death Eaters still on the loose not everything was secure. And Snape well knew that there was the possibility of an insane admirer or someone hell bent on some form of vengeance being the cause of the attack. What of the flying knife, though? Had Harry just seen the knife arch down on him too fast to realize who had swung it? Or had someone actually spelled the knife to fly at him?

His thoughts were startled by a very familiar female voice calling Potter's name from across the hall. Dread pitted in the bottom of Snape's stomach, and he was in the room within seconds with his wand drawn, wondering just how in the hell Granger had managed to get past the wards and fidelius charm. Instead of bushy hair, however, Snape was greeted by a silvery otter flittering about the room. It called Potter's name once again, and then the annoying badgering of Hermione Granger started.

"Harry! You need to get to St. Mungo's! They've captured Romilda, you're safe now. But someone needs to look at your wound, Harry please talk to me! None of us can find you, where are you?"

Snape shook his head and waved his wand at the otter. It disappeared, and with a quick glance to the bed, Snape noted that Harry hadn't moved. He concentrated for a mere second before his doe patronus burst forth from his wand, looking expectantly at him.

"Miss Granger, Potter is safe and the wound has been tended to. He is asleep now, however I need to know the exact details of what happened. I await your message."

Patronus messages were not difficult to send, and Snape rather liked the measure of privacy they afforded. He did not wish any of the Weasleys or Granger invading their little cottage sanctuary via a Floo call.

Less than an hour later Snape was back in Harry's room, moving mechanically as he pondered the information Granger had given him. The dinner had been going fine, if not rather boring, when a screeching noise had been heard from near the buffet, and a knife had gone soaring through the air. It had been spelled, and it had only been Harry's luck that he'd turned at that moment, causing the knife to strike his upper shoulder instead of dead center. There had been a few minutes of shock from the crowd while the aurors had surrounded Harry and subdued Romilda Vane, but her yells had been heard quite clearly. She had been screaming adamantly that if she could not have Harry, than no one would.

"Apparently, she doesn't know that you're the Boy-Who-Doesn't-Bloody-Die."

Snape's comment was to himself, and his amusement was evident in the undertone. Harry slumbered on, looking relaxed and comforted by the white bedding and thick duvet. Still mostly dressed in his formal attire, his shirt torn in half and cut away at the shoulder, he looked a bit out of place. Snape began to methodically remove Harry's dress shoes, spelling them back to the closet. The socks were pulled back, and Snape noted the few sparse black hairs on Harry's feet. They were not youth's feet, and though they were not particularly attractive or large for that matter, they were well proportioned and the soles were rough, as if he preferred to walk without shoes when he could.

Snape's eyes moved up the rest of Harry's body, noting details that he'd never seen before, or perhaps let himself see. The way Harry's sideburns met a few stubborn hairs that shaving had missed, or the lines across his forehead and around his eyes that showed only part of the toll from war. He picked up Harry's hand and noted that instead of a soft child's hand sticky with forbidden candy remnants, he found a hand only slightly smaller than his, calloused in the palms, with strong fingers and knuckles. There was a trace of dirt under the nails, and a few random scars along the fingers and palms. And on his left hand, lettering. There were only a few ways that one could get lettering scars, and Snape had a sickening feeling he knew what had caused this one.

He dropped the hands and carefully sat Harry up by holding his back, ignoring the way Harry's head rolled. Completely exhausted and out of it, which was fine by Snape. The man looked like he needed sleep desperately.

Snape quickly pulled the remnants of the shirt off, taking care not to bump the still healing shoulder, and rested Harry back on the bed. He went to the bathroom for a bowl of warm water and flannel, as the blood had covered more of Harry's skin than he'd thought. He made quick work of cleaning Harry's chest up, cursing himself when he noticed that while Harry didn't have much hair across his chest, there was a dark inviting tuft starting around his belly button that trailed lower under his trousers. Potter's stomach was toned with muscle and a bit of fat, giving him a more natural look instead of a chiseled statue, and two curvy lines above his hips flowed down to the centre of his trousers. Snape sucked in a breath and refused to think about getting aroused in front of Potter, never mind that it was Harry Bloody Potter who had aroused him.

He had convinced himself that his body was exacting revenge for twenty years of celibacy.

The last thing left to do was remove the dress trousers and replace them with the pyjama pants Snape had seen Harry wear countless times. As many wizards learned at an early age, one does not spell trousers on and off when there are delicate parts hanging in the balance, so to say, as the experience is not a comfortable one. Snape just hoped that Harry wore pants under his trousers, and with luck, boxers at that.

He deftly undid the button and zipper, grasping material from around the side of Harry's thighs and tugging down. No boxers, Snape swore inwardly. Instead, just over the hem of Harry's trousers Snape saw white elastic, and bright orange fabric. He pulled further, tugging the material down and finally off, before turning to face Harry again. Strong muscular calves with dark curly hair lay against the white comforter, leading up to those blasted orange y fronts with gleaming white trim. Snape had seen undergarments like that on many men of his persuasion before, and swallowed hard at the implication of Potter that meant. The pyjama pants were put on with record timing.

Snape now had two options. It was very likely that with the attack Harry would have a nightmare that night, so he could either sit in the chair by the fire all night, or sit on the bed. The bed was a double, and certainly big enough, if not slightly inappropriate. However, the chair was not made for sleeping in as he well knew, and Snape didn't want to fall out of it when Harry woke up screaming. He gathered up the medical supplies instead, changed into his own nightclothes with an additional robe, and sat against the pillows on the bed, leaning up against the headboard. He'd brought his potion journal to make notes in, and left the fire going strong for warmth. It was rather comfortable in the room, the window allowed for a slight cool breeze, and outside only dim sounds of crickets could be heard. A group of fireflies played about the window, but zipped off soon after. Tomorrow they'd have to talk about what happened, but tonight, there was at least some peace. Snape propped up his book to begin reading, and tried not to stiffen five minutes later when Harry curled up against his side.

….

Throughout the whole next day both managed to completely avoid discussing what had transpired at the Ministry, even when Snape had carefully rewrapped the wound after checking it. Instead, as a distraction, Snape decided it was time to work on Harry's list.

"It's Friday. Surely you have something silly and socially awkward on your list to do?"

Harry sat in the living room by the fire, a mug of hot chocolate in his hand. It was only afternoon, but the wind was rather strong outside and the clouds hung low.

"I want to order in tonight."

"Pardon?" Snape sat in the leather chair beside him, poking at the logs inside with the iron poker.

"You know. Order takeaway. I've never been able to do that before."

"Potter." Snape stopped poking and looked at Harry as if he had recently walked into a wall. "The house is invisible. You still couldn't."

"Fine." Harry glared, finishing his hot chocolate. "We'll go to Abersoch and get takeaway to bring home. Or I can, since you seem so excited to go."

"Oh, but I am. Knowing you Potter, you will choose a ridiculously ethnic and questionably sanitary establishment to procure dinner, and I will get food poisoning. I will thus successfully avoid your little friends when they visit tomorrow."

Snape stood and walked to the front door, fishing his cloak out of the wardrobe, leaving Harry to shake his head in confusion.

….

Harry had been pacing all Saturday morning as he waited in the kitchen, where the fireplace was open to the Floo connection for a short period of time. Snape had been in and out already, briefly mentioning wearing a tread in the wooden floors before disappearing back to his bedroom. He had not been poisoned by the previous night's dinner, much to his and partially Harry's annoyance.

Finally, at ten thirty, the fireplace roared green and his friends spun into view. His grin spread across his face to the point of hurting his cheeks, and he took a relaxing breath before inviting his friends to his home.

…..

Cornelius Fudge sat behind his desk, a stack of transcripts lying forgotten under his hat. They were from earlier interviews that he'd given with junior Death Eaters and victims of the raids in the wars. He'd listened patiently to all the sob stories, and ruthlessly questioned the stupid young recruits who had joined for the power that was offered to the Dark side. Fudge should have been sickened by the claims of violence made by mere seventeen year olds, but he was no stranger to the quest of power. Nor frustration, and at the moment he was having his fill of that. A knock sounded on his door, and Fudge pointed his wand at it, admitting entrance.

Greeley entered the small office, the wand never wavering as he sat down in front of Fudge. St. Mungo's had only released him a day earlier, and Greeley had spent the night drinking away his embarrassment over being caught. It looked like Fudge would be no less forgiving, and a notebook was thrown roughly at Greeley without warning.

"The trial is August fifteenth, and by then we must completely discredit him. Which we cannot do, if you cannot find the man!"

Fudge's face was brightening in anger, and Greeley began to wonder just when it had become his job to personally smoke out an ex-spy, of all people.

"Get out. You will not be paid until you have something substantial to publish."

Fudge watched as Greeley slinked out the door, his eyes never once making contact. He shuffled the papers again on the desk, resisting the urge to burn them. Over thirty-two interviews, and hardly any mention of Severus Snape at all, not even as a passing witness to the tortures being committed. Fudge was not as stupid as he liked other people to believe, though, and he knew something damning must come up at one point. It wasn't possible that Snape hadn't participated in any of the killings or torture; as damaging as the murder of Dumbledore was, additional crimes would be icing on the cake. Fudge just had to find the right person to talk to.

….

Ron sat in the kitchen of the little cottage, staring around at the decorations and kitchen supplies that were set out on the counters. It seemed so domestic, and while Hermione checked out the garden from the window, Ron let himself be jealous for a moment. Grimmauld Place, while no longer being as dreary as it had been as Order headquarters, was still rather barren.

Harry, however, was completely relaxed in his house. He'd only lived there full time for a month now, but felt that he was truly master of his home. Even his roommate, whom was currently pacing around upstairs, was a tolerated, if not welcome, member of the household.

Upon hearing the floors creaking again, Ron pointed towards the ceiling.

"Mate, really. How do you live in close quarters with that?"

"Ron!"

Though Hermione's tone matched admonishment, Harry could see the smile she was fighting back.

"Oh, he's not that bad, really." Harry joined them at the table and pulled out a deck of cards to play Exploding Snap. "I just pretend he's a woman, helps dealing with the mood swings."

This earned him a loud snort of laughter from Ron, and then they both were swatted by Hermione. Harry had bluntly explained to his friends when they'd first arrived that Snape was living there and that Harry had had to heal him after the war. Ron, surprisingly, had taken the news better than Hermione, whom remained skeptical of their ability to co-exist without causing harm. They had agreed, however, to keep the secret about where Snape was living, as it did seem to be the safest for the moment.

The game started in earnest and the stomping upstairs was forgotten when the cards started to explode. Ron was raking in a sizable pile of debris when through the doorway a blurry black object flew across the room towards Harry's head. Without even looking up from the game Harry swerved out of the trajectory's path, and a second later the object smashed into the wall behind him.

"The hell was that?" Ron snarled, jumping up in surprise. Hermione had gasped, but Harry remained still and shuffling the cards, as if that occurrence was normal for the house.

"Snape. We made a deal, I make sure there's at least two bottles of his favourite drink in the house, or he throws a bag of bottle caps at me."

Hermione stared at him.

"Harry, that's barbaric."

"It works." Harry shrugged, dealing their hands. He stood and walked to the door and yelled up the stairs.

"Kreacher's buying some today! Be a little more patient or I'll hold an intervention."

A muttered string of curses was heard through the ceiling, but Harry merely sat down to begin playing again, ignoring both the colourful language and the widened eyes of his friends.

"It's alright." He finally said, with a smile. "Let's get a start on lunch, eh?"

Harry had suggested home made pizza, so the three set up mixing bowls and a pizza stone on the table, rolling out the home made dough carefully. The pizza would be divided for each to customize as they wanted. When they were almost done, Harry looked at his friends and grinned widely. Not only did Ron have pizza sauce on the side of his mouth, they were both covered in flour. A wicked idea formed in his mind as he covered both hands of his in flour, while Ron was helping Hermione put the pizza in the oven. Under the pretense of gathering ingredients up to clean, Harry moved to Ron's chair and lightly put his hands down. Only when he looked up did he notice Snape standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, a glint in his eyes and a quirk on his lip. Harry quickly moved back to the sink to wash his own hands, trying to look as innocent as he could.

Upon seeing the Potions Master at the door, Ron quickly sat back down and tried to blend into the furniture. Hermione stood her ground, and nodded towards Snape.

"Professor."

Snape considered this and answered civilly.

"Miss Granger." He then turned to look at Harry, who would have been afraid of the glare had he not spent a month learning the many faces of Severus Snape.

"Potter, I do believe you have fully outdone yourself."

Harry found an errant piece of pepperoni and popped it into his mouth.

"You'll need to be more specific Snape, if you're trying to provoke me."

"Hardly. Though this time I was merely commenting on your ability to look like a three year old in a man's body. Most impressive."

"It's a skill." Harry said with flourish, waving his hands around and spreading more flour in the kitchen.

"Indeed." Snape moved out of range and took a carton of leftovers from the fridge. "I'll be in the lab all day. Do try not to set the kitchen on fire."

He moved to leave, ignoring the snort of shocked laughter from Ron.

Once the pizza was in the oven, Harry offered to give Ron and Hermione a tour of the cottage, Hermione giggling at the flour handprints on the seat of Ron's pants. He led them out into the hallway, where Ron proceeded to blatantly inspect everything. Hermione had admonished him, but Harry didn't mind at all. This was the first house he'd ever owned, and he was damn proud to show it off.

Ron had been taken back by the cottage. It appeared to be a cozy home from the kitchen, which was the only view he'd had at first, and it seemed inviting and warm. He knew he shouldn't be surprised at that, but he thought there'd be a cold sense to the house knowing that Snape was living there too. And when Harry had started the tour in the small front hallway, Ron had been slightly surprised to see two sets of boots at the front door, and two cloaks hanging from the hooks. They looked so...normal to be there.

When they moved into the living room, Ron couldn't help but smile. On the wall were large black and white photos of common every day things, and the room was decorated with a few trinkets seemingly placed at random on bookcases and tables. The neutral greys and blues of the room definitely suited Harry, and Ron supposed that the colours were ones he could imagine Snape choosing too. There were plenty of books in the corner book cases, and Ron was amused to see a small little Slytherin pennant poking out from one of the books stacked on the desk. Snape definitely lived here.

As Harry pointed out the back garden to Hermione through the French doors, Ron made his way over to the telly stand that was near the fireplace. It was rather modern, and underneath it was a music player that Ron knew he'd seen before. In his mind Ron flipped through the books he'd read from the Muggle studies course and suddenly remembered with triumph. It was called a CD player. The VHS tapes that were stacked along the low shelf caught Ron's interest, and he was surprised to find a mixture of adventure movies, comedies, and old black and white tapes. He'd seen a few movies, having spent some time in sixth year furiously studying the Muggle world in private, so that he could take Hermione out into Muggle London and not stick out too much. The CDs had his interest too, and though most of his knowledge was of Wizarding music he was pleased to recognize some of the bands. Some of them, however, were strangely foreign.

"Harry? Who's this Counting Crows band? I've never heard of them."

Startled out of their conversation, both Harry and Hermione turned to look at Ron, but it was Hermione who spoke first.

"Oh, those are CDs, Ron, they're for music."

Her voice was sweet and somewhat patronizing, and Harry smirked at Ron's rolled eyes.

"Thanks, Hermione. I've got some myself, glad I have you to tell me what they're for."

This time Harry laughed outright. Hermione stuttered and glared at him.

"They're Snape's, Ron. I think it's one of his favourite bands."

"Wait, those belong to Snape?" Hermione looked very surprised. "But, he's a wizard!"

Ron shook his head and continued flipping through the CD titles. "And you're a witch. So?"

"Most of the movies are his, too." Harry was leaning against the wall and smiling at Hermione's flustered look.

"Well I didn't think your taste in movies was that good, mate." Ron shot Harry a grin.

Hermione laughed a little but then shook her head.

"It's so strange to think about Professor Snape watching movies. I mean, of course he has a life outside of teaching, but I never imagined it to be so…ordinary. He's got a whole stack of movies there, and in the kitchen I saw him leaving with a Chinese take away box!"

Harry furrowed his brow, momentarily confused that Ron was taking the realization of Snape being human much better than Hermione was.

"Hermione." Ron stood up and walked over to her, giving her a light peck of a kiss on her cheek. "This house belongs to two half-blood wizards. Of course there are Muggle things here, and of course they'd use things from both worlds."

"I know Ron!" Hermione stamped out, annoyed that he was making sense. "It's just caught me by surprise."

Ron suddenly got a very evil grin on his face.

"Let's see his room then, Harry. Let's really scare her."

The slap across his face was definitely worth it.

….

Hermione and Ron had taken their leave just after dinner, feigning work on Grimmauld Place early in the morning as an excuse, but Harry knew that they just wanted the evening out together. He felt a small pang of jealously, and for more than a few irrational moments, tried convincing himself that his roommate was just a roommate and was not someone that he was beginning to enjoy spending time alone with. Nonetheless, Harry went to investigate just what said someone was currently up to in the kitchen.

A low fire was burning in the fireplace. It was barely nine pm, and the dusk outside seemed almost suspended. Two bottles and a shot glass sat on the table, and in the background classical music was playing. Harry stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the doorway. Snape worked methodically as if he had been preparing a potion, pouring a glass of absinthe from a bottle that Harry judged to be at least one hundred years old, and very potent.

"I never took you for a drinker."

Snape didn't look up, wanting to appear nonchalant about Harry's presence.

"I'm in the market for a new vice." He placed a spoon on top of the glass, and put a soaked sugar cube on it.

Harry inspected the bottle, turning over the label and reading the ingredients. Wormwood was listed in bold typeface, and Harry sighed, taking a seat.

"It looks like poison."

A match flared and the cube was on fire.

"Maybe it is."

It was silent except for the music for a few moments as the sugar flared and then was doused by the alcohol. Harry watched as a ritual of sorts was performed; Snape muttering something to himself, taking a deep breath, tapping his wand with his finger twice and then drinking half the glass. His face held a grimace and eyes remained shut as he drained the rest, before he sat back and exhaled.

"What's the whole point of this, Snape? If you're trying to get me to talk about the Ministry yesterday, forget it."

Harry received a fierce glare, but after four weeks' practice he was easily able to ignore it.

"Merely exploring other forms of exorcism." Snape refused to look at Harry, choosing instead turn the intricately decorated spoon over continually in his hand. He suddenly looked up, and Harry felt unease at the sardonic grin he received.

"Intended result being that I sleep like the dead through the night without needing you to sleep on a chair in my room. Ends justify the means, after all."

Harry shook his head. The wormwood would knock Snape out, of course, but this was not a permanent solution, nor would the after effects be pleasant.

"And this is a better alternative than dealing with your nightmares?" He asked, knowing full well that he could not talk Snape out of something he'd decided to do.

"No one is forcing you to take part." Snape said, with a snarl reminiscent of Harry's first potions class. "Though I would admire your gluttony for punishment if you did."

"Just drink your damn root beer instead."

"No."

"Fine. Maybe I will join you then. It's on your list, isn't it?"

Snape scoffed and put his spoon back over his now full glass.

"You're going to match me, Potter? I did always protest that you had a suicidal streak."

"I'm not suicidal, but if you're going to be stupid, I may as well go along for the ride."

"Indeed. And tomorrow during Molly Weasley's explosion at the Burrow over your sorry hung-over state, I imagine you'll waste no time blaming your corruptive old professor?"

Harry crossed his arms and shook his head.

"The little green fairy, more like."

Snape regarded him carefully and poured another glass.

"When did you get so old?"

Forty-five minutes later, Harry knew exactly what Snape had meant by the word clarity. He felt drunk, though he felt anything but sloppy. The kitchen became a very tactile room under his gaze, and he breathed in the sounds that were surrounding him. He felt like he could hear the colours from the walls and cupboards, and wondered if Snape could feel the same. He had the sickening feeling that something was watching them, but slowly scanning the room with his eyes had revealed nothing, so perhaps he was just hallucinating.

Snape was studying the man across the table from him and knew that he could smell the agitation radiating from his body. Harry's eyes had never been that dull before, and for a man who was able to resist the imperius curse, he was jumping through a lot of hoops for the Ministry and the Order. Yesterday would have been some sort of breaking point, Snape imagined, and if he wasn't careful, Potter might never want to leave the cottage.

Snape shook his head and blinked his eyes. Soon they would pass from the social and intelligent drunkenness of absinthe into the looser, hallucinatory side. What the hell. The bottle was summoned, and he began pouring another, spilling a little at the sudden movement out of the corner of his eye.

Harry sat up too fast and stared over by the kitchen door.

"Snape. There is a kappa in the corner." Harry's two heads were spinning. His four eyes were slightly blurry.

"No." Snape's teacher tone was back, and for a moment Harry thought he'd be lectured. "That's a grindylow. Didn't the wolf teach you anything?"

"Says the man who took pleasure when my potions almost blew up at me."

"I have a sick sense of humour."

"Positively macabre." Harry watched Snape fumble the glass.

"What's giving you nightmares, Potter?"

Harry looked up and blinked. It was not the question he was expecting.

"Nothing."

Snape pushed the glass over and handed him the matches.

"Don't lie to me. For all you've been through in the past twenty years, you can't tell me you don't have nightmares. And lets not mention the nights I sleep in your room so you can actually get some rest."

"I'm not lying." Harry mumbled, taking another sip. "I dream that I've woken up, and everything is gone. I'm just lying there, in space, in an endless field of nothing."

Snape stopped to consider the answer and drank his own mixture.

"That would be sufficiently terrifying."

"Stop talking like a bloody textbook."

"What would you have me say, Mr. Potter?"

Harry thought for a moment.

"Do you know any drinking songs? The only one I know is called What do You do With a Drunken Sailor."

Snape stared at him and looked like he was trying to suppress laughter.

"Hell, Potter, what can't you do with a drunken sailor?"

The clock in the kitchen chimed twenty-eight, if Harry had counted properly. He couldn't remember ever being awake at that hour before.

"Whas in this?" His tongue seemed be betraying him. Perhaps Fred and George had slipped him a ton-tongue toffee. No, just George.

"Fred's gone now."

A grunt was given in return, as Snape carefully poured two more shots of absinthe out of the bottle and onto the table. It seeped slowly into the wood around the glasses, reflecting the flare from the fireplace.

"Wormwood. More than I should have put, I think." He placed two spoons above the empty glasses, and set alcohol soaked sugar cubes atop the spoons. Harry watched in entrancement. They each picked up a matchbook and tried striking them. Incendio was never a good idea while drinking.

"What's haunting you?" Harry had asked four times during the evening, but never gotten a straight answer. He was fairly certain that his professor had been lying about the pink elephant following him.

"You are. Light the damn thing!"

There was a spark and a flare as Harry finally managed to light his match, which he then set to both sugar cubes. They watched as the sugar burned, then dumped the spoons. The cubes fell into the glasses where they did not burn out.

"I can't drink that." Snape sounded offended as he watched the flames burn off the alcohol inside the cup.

Harry tossed the match onto the table when he realised that it was burning his finger, and they watched with dull interest as it found the other match heads. Snape had thirty seconds to contemplate what a neat reaction the little flare was as they lit, before blinking stupidly. Fire was a bad thing. Harry seemed to be coming to his senses too, watching the table start to burn. He grabbed his wand, pointed it the wrong way, and half shouted at the flames.

"Aguamenble!"

Snape started to laugh. His wand was in his hand, which had fallen to the side of him.

"Kreacher!"

The house elf popped in with an annoyed look on his face, and with a snap of his finger the fire was out. The parchment at the table had been destroyed, and there was a slightly acrid smell of smoke lingering. Kreacher regarded them with a disapproving look, and banished the alcohol as well, before vanishing.

"Stupid house elf." Snape muttered, before resting his head on the table.

….

It was eleven thirty am, and somewhere in the yard a bird was chirping. Snape wanted to hex it. Somehow they'd survived the night and he was inexplicably glued to the table. Not glued, apparently, as he tried to move himself and found that to be slightly possible. His head was just too heavy to lift. In his peripheral vision he saw a rag of messy black hair, and after five minutes of intense concentration, managed to lift his finger and poke said bush of hair. The table was told to fuck off, and Snape felt the vibrations of the voice through the wood to his cheek, which was still firmly planted on the table.

"Geddup. Meeting." Snape's tongue felt dry and thick, like a desert slug. Not even bothering to wonder if those actually existed, he successfully raised himself up and stared at the body lying sprawled out against the room, half sitting in the seat. He poked it again.

"Fuck off or kill me now."

Surprisingly coherent for a morning after, Snape thought. Maybe Potter had been through this before.

"Kreacher!" Snape bellowed, a little louder than he'd intended and causing them both to wince. "I'm not sober enough to enjoy killing you now."

An hour later, they'd each consumed a vial of sobriety potion, hangover cure, a nutrient potion, and had a shower. They were dressed and wearing sunglasses, both very stylish and extremely dark ones. Harry didn't dare mention that the hangover potion hadn't quite worked, but Snape had grumbled about the effects of absinthe being resistant to regular cures. For the moment, they'd have to do with a mild headache, motion queasiness, and sensitivity to the annoying sun outside. Snape was considering making a sacrifice to whoever controlled the weather so they could have at least an overcast day in Ottery St. Catchpole, and Harry thought it best to not remind him of the loudness or vibrant designs of the Burrow.

Getting to the meeting posed another problem. Apparition was out of the question, as Snape had scathingly concluded that Harry would splice himself six ways to hell trying to get there. Harry had sniped back that broom travel was also not an option, as Snape didn't have the balance required and Harry refused to act as a guard to stop Snape from impaling himself on the broom when he fell. It was either portkey or Floo they were left with, and neither option sounded ideal on their stomachs.

It was such that Molly Weasley, Minerva McGonagall, Arthur Weasley, and the rest of the Weasley children were slightly more than gob smacked to watch the fireplace flare green, two wizards spinning off kilter and groaning above the roar of the flames, clutching onto each other for dear life. They were spat onto the rug in a very undignified matter, and both immediately conjured buckets. There was some snickering from the men as they dry heaved over the buckets, but the matriarchs of the room stood stiffly, crossing their arms, and pursing their lips in anger. After a moment Harry sat up and noted that Snape was leaning against his back.

"Get off me." He gave a shove and pushed Snape back.

"Likewise, Potter. Heaven knows where you've been." Snape shoved him and moved to stand up, banishing the buckets.

"And yet, I'm still here." Harry accepted Snape's hand and was pulled to his feet.

"Of course you are, you little cockroach." They stood apart quickly, the glares they were trying to give negated by the sunglasses.

"Ahem." Minerva's cough was polite, but Snape could see both anger and amusement in her eyes. Molly Weasley, however, was turning red in annoyance.

"Are you both hung-over? What on Earth made you think that starting today with a hangover would be a good idea? Especially after what happened at the Ministry!" The words were hissed out, just like a mother cat, red hair standing on end. Any concern Molly had over Harry's injury had taken a back burner to her annoyance over their state.

George Weasley was trying not to smile, and Harry idly noted that the pain was worth it if he could make George smile again.

"Madame, we were still drunk when we woke up. Can we get on with the meeting?" Snape replied elegantly, trying to stand as straight as he could.

Harry and Snape gingerly walked into the kitchen, spelling the blinds down over the window and finally taking their glasses off. They sat at the table as the rest of the group walked in, and Molly caught the last of their conversation.

"No demons last night?" Snape muttered it under his breath.

"None." Harry sat back, pulling a bottle of something out of his pocket and waving his wand at it. The label disappeared before either Molly or Minerva could see what it had said, and they watched as he gave it to Snape. "But let's not use that method again. Christ."

"Agreed."

…..

The meeting started and nothing much new was reported, as it seemed the remaining Death Eaters had either fled the country or were deep in hiding. Harry was pleased to hear that the rebuilding of Hogwarts was proceeding smoother than they'd originally anticipated, as it seemed that some of the castle's magic was sympathetic and easily replicated to facilitate repairs.

After the meeting was over Minerva cornered both Harry and Snape again, intending to have a very frank discussion.

"Severus, Harry." She was met with silence, and could see that neither would offer any information.

"Oh for the love of Merlin, Severus Snape. I have been teaching with you for longer than I care to remember and I have never seen you in such a state."

She was met with a glare, and Snape merely crossed his arms, steeled against the imposing figure.

Harry giggled before he could help himself, and then snapped his mouth shut when Minerva turned on him.

"And you, Mr. Potter, may wish to keep quiet. I don't know what is happening to you two, but if this is your way of dealing with the war, use another method! Talk about it, write about, see a healer, use love if you have to! Anything has to be better than what you idiots have been doing."

"Love?" Harry's face was scrunched up in distaste, as he thought about the nights spent sleeping in the chair in Snape's room.

"Don't make that face at me, young man." Minerva scolded, missing the similar look of horror in Snape's eyes. "Like when you fight dementors. Just think of something. No more fist fights, and no more drinking as if you are trying to pickle yourselves."

They nodded silently and apparated out, pondering what exactly they were supposed to love to end the nightmares.

…..

The Prime Minister waited until it was precisely nine pm before going over to the portrait in the corner of the room; the dusty, faded, ugly portrait that he tried to avoid as a general rule. The little man in it was sleeping, and he wasn't sure how the polite way of waking him, so he rapped his knuckles on the wall beside the portrait, and cleared his throat. One eye opened.

"Could you please let Mr. Shacklebolt know that I would like to…meet with him?"

The man in the painting considered for a moment, and replied with a "Very well." He walked out of the frame, and the clock ticked loudly in the silence of the office.

After ten minutes, the man was back and made an official statement announcing the minister's arrival. The fireplace lit up in green light, and Kingsley Shacklebolt came spinning into view.

The discussion was short, and to the point. After the war was finished Kingsley had returned and told the Prime Minister what had happened, glossing over the finer details. The Prime Minister had been horrified, and oddly curious to know everything about what had transpired. He'd learned the names of the heroes, the dead, the traitors. More importantly, he'd become very curious and rather awed at the two foremost players of the war, both who were spoken of untold bravery, and cunning intelligence, one who was still facing trial for his deeds as a spy. He sighed and wondered if he was making the right choice, or just being paranoid by asking for them.

Their meeting was short, and the Prime Minister gave very little detail. Kingsley had known of the upcoming weeklong conference between the US President and the British Prime Minister, so little was needed the be filled in, save for the Minister insisting that though his fears were probably stupid, he would still like to run them by the experienced spies. Shacklebolt laughed at this description, and agreed to the meeting, warning not to expect much conversation. Kingsley stepped back towards the flames and the Prime Minister thanked him again.

"Thursday at nine pm, It's imperative it be confidential."