He awoke with a start in a room that was not his own. In a bed that was certainly not his own, staring up at a ceiling that was not his own. He sat up, startled. Where...

Oh.

Of course.

This was the cottage, by the sea. He knew that. This was the guest bedroom, and the brightly coloured offensively orange bedspread was one he associated only with happier times. The covers were slightly damp now, he presumed from the same sweat that had gathered on his forehead. One day he hoped the nightmares would not even reach him here. He straightened the covers and his pyjama top, which was a very suitable dark green which was far more favourable than the rest of the ... decor ... he hesitated to offer as a noun as he stood, bare feet brushing against the velvet carpet. Brightness behind the curtains suggested it was nearly morning, and the twittering and giggling of small birds in the ivy that adorned the side of the cottage gave him additional evidence that maybe it was time to emerge and wander downstairs.

The cottage was always comfortably warm so he never needed to wear a thick cloak unlike at Hogwarts. Even now, in the early winter, there was something magical about the rooms, as if they were protected with some ancient spell that meant the dark thoughts could never consciously invade.

Considering it was Albus Dumbledore's own cottage, maybe there was some ancient magic.

There was also, apparently, toast.

Apparently...burnt...toast, based on Severus' sudden reflexes and reactions as he hurried down the staircase to the typically Muggle kitchen. "Headmaster, you are burning the toast."

The room was empty.

Apart from the Muggle toaster which was smoking, and not in a way Severus particularly liked the look of. He hurried over to solve that, just as the door to the back garden opened and Albus returned. "Good morning Severus! How are you?"

"Pleased not to have burned to death, Headmaster, with your errant supervision of toast." He waved, tentatively, the charred bread before the older wizard who merely twinkled at him in response. "What were you doing?"

"I was looking at the butterflies if you must know."

Severus tutted beneath his breath and scraped the blackest of the black off the toast with a knife. "Can Minerva supervise the toast next time? Where is she?"

"An early trip to the village apparently to visit the market. You know she will be gone for hours with all the sweet treats there and pâtisserie. We can join her later if we wish." Albus paused to regard Severus, "You look tired, my boy. Another nightmare?"

A soft affirming sound, "They are getting worse."

"I wish I could stop them for you, my boy, I really do."

"I think that is a power even you do not have, Headmaster." Something of a compliment, which Albus smiled at, coming round to put an arm across Severus' shoulders and Severus tried not to genuinely straighten at the warmth. "A day outside will chase them away."

Time was always strange in the cottage, Severus mused to himself. It was something about the warmth of the days and the bright sunshine and the beautiful scenery that meant it seemed to blur into one. He did not remember quite how they got to the market, but here they were, Albus in appalling Muggle attire and Severus in a simple black shirt and tailored black trousers and an unbuttoned...well...black coat. Eventually they found Minerva at a prettily adorned flower stall, which Albus of coruse took upon himself to buy half the stand and insist she carried it around the rest of the market, and Severus lingered a step behind like a shadow of their affection. Maybe he was. He went wherever they went, after all. Protection? Yes. For whom? Him, or them?

The smell of the flowers surpassed anything else in the field where they finally settled to have their picnic Minerva had been painstakingly collecting. Their conversation was light, airy, floating on the ... December ...?...breeze. He thought the field seemed rather flowery for December. Maybe that was the magic, too. He found himself lost in their light, his and her light, their love for each other, and how that radiated onto him, and how he felt lucky, how he felt blessed, and how far away the nightmares felt now, and he felt strong, so strong, as if he could never falter again. They gave him that, Minerva in her smile, Albus in his eyes. He was jerked back to the conversation and gave a reply to the teasing joke, "At least I can make toast, Headmaster."

But his voice sounded strange.

The title was right, but the tone was wrong.

He repeated it, too.

Did he? Did he repeat it, too?

He never repeated himself.

Why was Albus not replying?

Why could he not understand what was being said?

Why was he repeating the title over and over and over and

- He awoke with a start in a room that was his own. In a bed that was certainly his own.

Lupin was there, shaking him. "Headmaster."

He blinked. "What?"

"We found them."

Part of him was still there, in the field, surrounded by light.

"But."

"But what, Lupin." His voice was sharper than he intended because he could see the darkness on Lupin's withered face. He did not want to be here. He wanted to be back in the field and the cottage.

He wanted to be back in the nightmare because...

"It is not good, Severus."

The nightmare was better than reality.