AN: Appreciate your patience with the update pace. Thank you for the notes! They are making a very blah January a bit friendlier.

December 25th, 1997

The bothy had a small stone stoop, facing south and only somewhat shielded from the bitter morning wind. Harry could see the sun rising to his right, and through the trees to his left, a shielded view of Believer Tor. It was not a quiet morning; a fox or similar sized animal was wandering through the woods near the bothy, and birds were fluttering around. Harry sat with a cup of coffee as he took in the view, flannel trousers and a knit jumper not quite keeping him warm enough. He'd been fairly quiet sneaking out of the bothy, and it had helped that the bed was big enough for him to move without disturbing Snape.

Severus Snape.

Harry sighed into his cup. Certainly not who he'd planned to spend his Christmas with, but nothing to be done about that now. Hermione at least had left him a message on their DA coin, and let him know she was okay.

"Potter," Snape said, opening the door. He'd evidently found the coffee supplies, as he held his own cup in his left hand.

"Happy Christmas," Harry said, looking back out into the woods.

Snape said nothing for a moment, just looked out upon his surroundings.

"If there is a way to contact Madame Pomfrey, I believe I can acquire a potion to regrow the nerves."

Harry nodded, and finally stood up. Snape had put his regular robes back on, having no other clothes in the bothy, and Harry wondered for a split second if he only had the one outfit, or several copies of it.

"How long will that take?" Harry asked. "For the growth."

Snape looked cross, but Harry wasn't entirely certain it as directly solely at him.

"A fortnight. Perhaps more."

Harry rubbed at his forehead. Two weeks in a tiny bothy with Snape. He was regretting answering the coded meeting message.

He walked back inside and rinsed his mug at the sink, aware of just how small the bothy really was. It had seemed ideal when Harry had first chosen it; both he and Hermione had found their own spots to run to just in case something happened, similar to their perilous and compromised flight from the Ministry.

Harry had clothes there, some linens, books, a first aid supply, and some food. He'd prepared to hunker down for a fortnight or two, and not need to put himself in further danger. Alone. He was still mostly safe, but the cursed arm put him at a disadvantage. And, he had company.

"Why am I here, Potter?" Snape asked, as if he'd been following along with Harry's thoughts.

Harry pulled a piece of sourdough out of a bag from the cupboard, breaking the preservation spell on it.

"Kill the spare."

Harry turned around, leaning against the worktop, and saw that Snape was sitting on the edge of the bed with a blank look.

"He's never cared about bystanders," Harry said, pointing the bread at Snape. "You were disguised as a muggle. You would have been killed in half a thought."

"I have been active in this war since before you were able to walk," Snape waspishly said. "Your assumption that I would be so easily dispatched is incorrect."

"Next time I'll remember to poll them on their intentions then," Harry snapped back.

"Potter– "

"No," Harry said. "It's done now, no changing it. I'll contact Pomfrey, and we can plan the next steps to end the war."

Harry popped the rest of the sourdough in his mouth and turned back to the door, struggling to put on his scarf one-handed and almost strangling himself with it.

"Leaving the safe house already," Snape said, somehow looking less imposing, with his right arm hanging by his side and his left trying to turn pages of a book and keep it from closing.

"I'm going outside to train," Harry pointed out, shrugging his coat on. "I'm not sure about you, but I've not exactly practised left-handed duelling."

…

It was a fairly simple standing shower, but the water was steady and hot, and a welcome change from the rustic washbasin of the tent. Harry took a look at his arm, the spidery red nerve burn marks standing out clearly against his pale skin. It looked as painful as it was, and now that the salve had been washed off, the nerves were starting to feel scorched again.

He stepped out the bathroom for a minute, steam rising up to the rafters of the bothy as he grabbed the salve from the worktop. Snape, who was standing at the bookcase beside the bed, watched him intensely.

"What?" Harry asked, using magic to stick the pot to the worktop so he could open it with his left hand.

Snape didn't stop staring, but snapped the book that he was holding shut.

"Put on the salve, Potter," Snape finally said.

Harry shook his head and went back to the bathroom. After the salve was applied as best as he could, Harry put his shirt and jumper on and used a sticking spell to keep his right arm against his chest.

Snape had moved to the worktop when Harry came out the washroom, alternating tapping a muggle radio with his wand and turning the dial. It was all static, and Harry wasn't certain that there was much signal where they were, but Snape was focused. He stopped when the dial was tuned to mostly static, the odd garble of words appearing. He was muttering at the radio, and to Harry's surprise, crystal clear voices came through less than a moment later.

"A happy and safe Christmas to you all! River here, with the news of the day to share."

"Is that…" Harry said, moving closer to the radio. He felt a small seed of hope upon hearing Lee's voice.

Snape waved his hand in Harry's general direction to shush him.

"We have news from Godric's Hollow, where last night it is reported that twelve Death Eaters and Snatchers were killed. They were found in the same cemetery which houses the grave of the Potters, leading many to wonder if the Death Eaters were there for a ritual, for bait, or because they had found Harry. The cause of death is still to be determined, and the Minister is demanding a full investigation. Lucius Malfoy is rumoured to be amongst the dead."

Harry felt the colour leave his face. He'd known it was a bomb of sorts, as Snape had told him. But he'd been the one to throw it, and that meant that he was the one responsible for killing the twelve.

"We've no news of Harry, of course, but we assume if Harry was one of the dead the Ministry would not keep that quiet," Lee continued. "In other news, more reports of a mysterious benevolent actor at Hogwarts are emerging, helping to keep some of the students safe and fed during these dark times. Thank you, to whomever you are."

Harry stared at Snape, who had an oddly pleased look on his face as he continued listening to the radio.

"Be safe, to all you resisters out there, and think of your fellow muggles if they're in danger. It's been months of terror from the Death Eaters, and yesterday's massacre of some of them could be the start of a bloody turn in this war. We'll be sure to keep you informed. The next password will be 'Hedwig', and we'll try to be on again tomorrow."

Snape terminated the spell on the radio and the bothy fell silent once more.

"What, exactly, was your intention with that candle bomb?" Harry asked. He was angry that he'd become a murderer, that he had acted out of split-second reaction without knowing what would happen. A small part of him wasn't surprised at the destructiveness though, as Snape had been the one to create sectumsempra, and Harry knew exactly how deadly that spell could be.

"A final means of escape, in a life-or-death situation," Snape said. He didn't sound guilty, or defensive, and Harry wondered how many back-against-the-wall weapons he had on him. "The only thing stopping them from murdering you on sight is that the Dark Lord has demanded the pleasure himself. The rest of us are not so fortunate."

"Right, but aren't you accepted as one of them? Certainly killing a bunch of Death Eaters and Snatchers will make things worse."

"It will accelerate the hunt for you," Snape acknowledged with an even voice. "Which is why you must act faster."

"Yeah. I'll get right on that," Harry said, sitting down on the chair closest to the fireplace. "Unless you can tell me where his horcruxes are hidden, I don't need to hear your opinions on speed, Professor."

"Horcruxes," Snape repeated, his expression growing stormy. "Literal objects to render the user immortal."

"Fancy way of saying the bastard can't easily be killed," Harry grumbled.

Snape was muttering under his breath and Harry could tell that he was reviewing every bit of information he'd ever learnt about horcruxes. A curse word or two were also muttered, but Harry assumed that they were for Dumbledore and not for him.

"More than one," Snape said, and Harry could tell he was angry at this turn of events, even though he must have suspected something like it to call their meeting the night before. "This is the task Dumbledore left three 17-year-olds in charge of."

"Six," Harry said, pulling the locket out of his pocket and putting it on the table. Snape was studying him, watching the tight hold Harry had on the chain, and the slight twitch of Harry's head as his hand made contact with the glass of the locket. "You Know Who doesn't know we're looking for them. Not yet. Once we've destroyed them, it'll just be us. Me and him. Like the prophecy said."

Harry drummed his fingers on the table. He'd not spoken the plan aloud in months. Ron and Hermione knew of it, and now Snape, but putting it into vocalised words felt like putting a termination date on himself.

Snape uttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'seven' under his breath, before storming out of the bothy. Harry glanced at the door and listened as Snape made his way to the back of the bothy, where a large stack of wood was for the stove. He made a mental reminder for himself to ask Snape for further explanation later, as it seemed like Snape knew more than he was telling. As usual.

Harry went to town to get food shortly afterward, and the rest of the day was spent quietly. Snape working outside and then brewing more salve, and Harry reading over a book on wands and wand woods, in an effort to narrow down more what potential objects Voldemort may have chosen as a representation of Ravenclaw. Snape refused to answer any questions Harry had on horcruxes, and Harry finally decide to leave it till the next day.

…

December 23rd, 1998

The floor was uneven by the fireplace, Harry idly thought. It was a bit Christmassy – the emerald green flames and the ruby red salamander that was poking its head out from under the largest log.

"Hi Harry." The voice came through before the image of the face cleared, and Harry nodded at the flames.

"Hi Den."

"Thanks for the fire call," Den said. He looked like he'd not been awake long, with hair sticking up at all angles and his tie draped around his shoulders. He resembled his brother, but had grown into his own over the past year.

"I wanted to ask if you'd do an interview, for our new magazine."

"I'm not exactly a fan of print papers right now," Harry said, holding up the Daily Prophet with a blank look on his face.

Den nodded, chewing on his bottom lip.

"We've called this The Brass Telegraph," Den said, passing through a glossy black magazine with a cover image of a burning Hogwarts. It was a hard image, bodies somewhat visible in the rubble at the base of the castle. "Brass for commanders, for officiality. For telling the truth even if it's hard to hear."

Harry flipped through a few pages, noting the mixture of articles and provocative photos. Clearly Colin hadn't been the only one in the family with a skill for photography.

"Middle ground between the Prophet and the Quibbler?" Harry asked. His thumb rubbed over the logo on the cover- a small brass coin that looked very similar to the DA coins they both had.

"That's the idea. A source of news not run by the Ministry, and with more believability than the Quibbler."

Harry smiled. "How many issues have you had?"

"Four. This is the first, just after the war. We've done some on the rebuilding, the back to school re-opening, a piece on the Ministry, and a back to regular life piece. They have sold, but not as much as we'd hoped."

Harry stirred his coffee, tapping the spoon delicately against the lip of the cup. Den was a few years younger, Harry remembered, still with a year or two left at Hogwarts. He seemed to have matured quickly, though Harry supposed losing his brother played a large part in that. He was looking at Harry with an intense gaze, and Harry knew a more direct ask was coming.

"What exactly are you asking?"

"A focus piece," Den said, immediately. "A soft interview; I have questions, but you can choose what to answer."

"My thoughts on the war?"

"And what you're doing now, plans for the future. People look up to you," Den said.

"People need a different hobby," Harry replied, closing the magazine. "I'll think about it."

…

Harry landed softly in the flattened grass to the north west of the Burrow, the whoosh of his arrival hidden by the sharp December wind. The trees and meadow were silent and shrouded by dark grey skies, the smoke from the several chimneys mixing in with the clouds. Instead of the bustling main house though, Harry walked toward the warmly-lit garage.

"Mind the shovels, Harry," Arthur greeted.

He'd managed to collect several varieties of muggle shovels and stack them by the back door, just in the way enough that they were a tripping hazard.

"Hi Arthur," Harry greeted. He perched himself on a stool and discretely cast a warming spell, smiling at the rusted muggle space heaters that Arthur was trying to heat the garage with.

"Something on your mind? You know Molly won't let you hide out here the whole time," Arthur said. He was carrying a wrench in his hand and randomly using it to try to adjust knobs on the machines around him.

"Sort of," Harry answered. Arthur said nothing, but instead gave Harry time to sort out his thoughts. "Colin Creevey was a boy in the year below me. Used to take a ton of photos at Hogwarts, fairly annoying at the time. His brother Denis is starting a magazine."

Arthur nodded and put the wrench down.

"Already started, I think."

"Yeah," Harry said, "but having trouble being taken seriously. He's asked me for an interview."

The wind rattled the small window by the door and Harry glanced over, noticing that it had begun snowing.

"I think you should consider it," Arthur said. "Especially given today's Prophet."

"It's a load of bollocks," Harry grumbled. "Ollivander asked if I was making wands, and I just said—"

"Most of us know that the Prophet is a half-truth more often than not," Arthur told him, with a smile. "But this new magazine doesn't have such a reputation as of yet. You can help form it."

Harry scratched his chin, the day-old stubble feeling tingly against his right fingers.

"I want to help him. And I want to think that doing one interview will put to rest any further requests."

Arthur raised his eyebrow and waited.

"There are several things I don't particularly wish to share."

"Harry," Arthur said, sighing a little. He picked up the wrench again and tapped it against his hand. "You've been a famous wizard since you were a baby– "

"But it's doesn't give them a right to know about me," Harry interjected.

"No, it doesn't," Arthur agreed. "But they are interested, so now is your chance to define exactly what you're willing to give them."

"So give my last hurrah interview," Harry said. "Telling people to leave me alone."

Arthur sighed again.

"You could do that," he agreed. "But what about using your interview as a way of, coming out, as the muggles would say."

Harry stilled in his seat and stared at Arthur. Ron and Hermione knew he was gay, of course – they'd met Luke and they'd also met Alice. But Harry had tried to keep it secret from everyone else.

"We know about Luke," Arthur gently said, "Molly and I. And that you're worried what everyone will think."

"You've never said…" Harry said.

"Why should we? We'd like all our kids happy and safe, and that seemed to be the case."

Harry smiled and swallowed roughly. He'd met more than a few gay guys at the bookshop who'd not had good coming out experiences, and had been worried about it with the Weasleys as well. Worrying for naught, it turned out.

"But it will be a surprise to others. You have the chance to normalise that."

Harry smiled a little and then ran his hand through his hair.

"Maybe I don't always want to be the one to go first."

Arthur laughed.

"No one does, Harry. You aren't the only gay wizard, of course. The older generation remember gossip columns written about our old headmaster, and a few others. Confirmed bachelors, they called them."

"The gossip columns are exactly where I don't want to be," Harry glumly said. "And as Hermione pointed out, there aren't many gay wizards that are even around for me to date. Maybe it's not worth it."

"Your happiness is always worth it," Arthur said, smiling wistfully and looking out the window toward the Burrow.

"What do the older generation say about an age gap then?" Harry asked. "Remus wasn't particularly eager to date Tonks because of that."

"Ah, yes," Arthur said. "Though I think that was rather more the reason he used to cover up his concerns on being a werewolf in love."

Harry gave a short depreciating laugh.

"You'll find two sorts, Harry. The ones who met at Hogwarts and stayed together, they'll be around the same age as each other. And the ones who met at work or at some sort of wizarding event; they'll be more different. We live a lot longer than muggles do, so a few years here or there doesn't matter much in the end."

"I suppose," Harry said. They heard a clanging coming from the direction of the Burrow, and made their way to the door. Molly only rang once for lunch before she started serving.

"I do think that anyone I end up with, I'll be judged for by the paper," Harry continued, as they walked up to the kitchen door.

"Yes, that's very likely," Arthur acknowledged. He clapped Harry on the back as they stepped through the door. "Just as they would if it were a witch."

…

"Harry this is tops," George said, holding his wand up to the light. The spruce wood glowed like honey under the warm kitchen light, and Harry had left a small dark jagged line in the dogwood where he'd joined Fred's wand core to George's.

Molly passed Harry the bowl of roasted potatoes as she beamed, not even admonishing George for conjuring sparks of fireworks above the table.

"Feels right, then?" Harry asked. He sat back quickly as a firecracker zipped around the seats and zoomed by his face.

"It's brilliant," George said. He set off a few more spells, causing Ron to jump out of his seat and Ginny to swat at the air as a few more firecracker sprites danced around. Hermione looked a mixture of fighting a laugh and slightly terrified as she ducked, and Percy looked aggrieved as he became a target for things whizzing round his head.

Harry felt rather proud. He'd done a few wands after the war, under the pseudonym of Barny Weasley, but he hadn't received much feedback beyond the first usage. George would be able to give it as necessary, though Harry suspected he was pretty happy with the wand as is.

"For you, Mum," George said, conjuring a beautiful bouquet of flowers out of the air. As she took them two of the flowers blew raspberries at her, and she rolled her eyes.

Harry settled back into his chair, content and full from the tasty lunch. He caught a glance of the portrait sat at the end of the table, of Fred quietly watching his brother laughing and pranking Arthur with an easily-summoned box of Wheezes chocolates from upstairs. A wistful smile was on his face, and though to an outsider he looked fairly happy, Harry was well familiar with the feeling of being content, and yet also lonely on the side lines.

…

Snape knocked once on Harry's door and then entered, seeming to know that the wards would permit it. Harry was just finishing up his morning dishes, and came to the sitting room a moment later. He'd already set up a cauldron and the ingredients on the coffee table, which had been raised to the proper height for a brewing table.

Snape spent fifteen minutes lecturing Harry on the pain-relieving cream he was to brew, and the ingredients contained within. It was like being lectured by the Half-blood Prince, as Snape went through the official recipe and then added his own comments to nearly every sentence about how to improve it and why that certain step was inaccurate.

"You're not as intimidating," Harry said ten minutes later, stirring his potion anti-clockwise, "when you're not storming around the dungeon looming over cauldrons."

Snape pursed his lips as he watched Harry carefully. He was leaning against Harry's work desk, and had been observing quietly as Harry brewed, spinning a piece of the red oak from the desk in his hands.

"You brew slightly better than a troll when you cheat and read from my book."

Harry grinned, his hand holding the page of Advanced Potion Making open.

"Not stolen," Harry said. "You left it for me."

"You have no evidence of that," Snape mildly countered.

"You won't convince me otherwise," Harry said. Snape changed the topic, which only cemented Harry's theory.

"How did you get food to the bothy?" Snape asked.

"What?" Harry asked. "Last year? I just went to the shops."

"You refused to give me details during this time, citing mistrust and possible danger, and yet you just went shopping in public?"

There was no missing his annoyed tone, but Harry ignored it.

"Yeah. I would go to big cities on match days. Blend in with the crowd," Harry stopped to count his stir rotations, and then continued when Snape kept quiet.

"Liverpool in particular was the best. Far from the bothy, no one I knew from there, and they liked to party. I just wore red and wandered through the highstreets, looking like I was part of it."

Harry looked up and noted that Snape was staring at him, which either meant that he was impressed or thought the idea incredibly stupid.

"It was particularly helpful because even when there wasn't a match, there were almost always stag and hen nights. As far as I know neither the Death Eaters or Snatchers ever looked for me there."

"No," Snape said. "Because they expected you to hide."

Harry shrugged. He twirled his wand over the cauldron and cast the last spell, before standing back.

"With your left?" Snape said, sharp as ever.

"It works better than my right sometimes," Harry told him. "The nerves are back, but…the change is noticeable some days."

Snape nodded and came over to inspect the potion.

"You have that too?" Harry asked, wondering if he'd get a response. As expected, Snape didn't answer.

"The colour isn't quite right," Snape said, lifting the ladle out of the cauldron and letting some of the cream drop back down to the cauldron. "But the smell is accurate."

"I lose points for the colour," Harry stated, "even though the cream will still work."

"That will be up to Headmistress McGonagall, once she receives my notes."

Snape summoned a small glass jar from his briefcase and ladled some of the potion into it.

"Hang on, are you not the one handling my NEWTS?" Harry asked.

"Proctoring," Snape replied. He capped the jar and sent it back to his case. "The Headmistress is busy."

Harry narrowed his eyes at that. Snape had turned away and was packing up his things, notebook placed back in the case, sample protected with a spell and put next to the notebook.

"That's not enough of a reason to make you spend time with me," Harry said, banishing the cauldron and potion to the kitchen. "You only spent time with me last year because we couldn't leave. At first."

Snape summoned his shoes and stepped into them, the laces doing themselves up as his feet settled.

"A harmonious anomaly," Snape said, keeping Harry's eye contact. "In any event, you- "

"Why are you here?" Harry interrupted. "Because I thought you came back wanting more of what we had at Dartmoor."

"We didn't have anything at Dartmoor," Snape said, his eyes dark and focused.

"We had a shit situation under the stress of war," Harry argued. "But it was all right, and I want to see if we can get back to it, without the whole war bit. But you're just being evasive and pretending that things are normal when they're not."

"You don't get to – "

"Because you've never been this…. this pleasant before. Not since Dartmoor," Harry pressed, properly worked up and ready for a good row. "So how else am I supposed to take this? I don't even know what you do now that the war's over."

"What I do is–

"And I don't actually care about the NEWTS either. I thought it was a good way to start talking again, now that we're not in hiding."

"Would you stop interrupting me, Harry!" Snape snapped.

Harry lifted his chin up in defiance but waited.

"What happened in Dartmoor– "

"The sex. The conversations–" Harry clarified.

"–Potter."

"Severus," Harry crossed his arms. Snape looked like he wanted to strangle Harry, which was an expression that Harry was used to and was oddly more comforting than it was concerning.

"Not in hiding?" Snape challenged, his voice low but steady. Harry looked away, heat rising to his cheeks. "People will accept war as justification for many things, but now we are no longer at war."

"And they no longer need us. Why should we give them any second consideration?" Harry said, some of the fight gone out. This morning's blasted Daily Prophet was on the floor by the door, and clearly Snape had seen it.

"This isn't like the movies," Harry continued. "I don't even know if we'll like each other for that long. But maybe we will."

Snape stood still, taking a moment to consider his reply as he fixed his scarf around his neck.

"And I know you know what movies are, Severus."

Snape turned his head sideways, and Harry saw a trace of amusement in his expression.

"That is enough for today."

He opened the door and stepped into the hall, stopping but not turning back when Harry spoke next.

"Fear of happiness is a terrible reason to stand behind."

"I am not afraid," Snape curtly said, turning back and making sharp eye contact. "You're concerned about coming out. Imagine the reaction if they then hear of your interest in a former Death Eater."

Snape walked off down the stairs as the door closed behind him. Harry felt like opening it and slamming it again, but resisted the urge. He almost wished Dartmoor had never happened, that he'd never realised that Snape could be a source of comfort, of conversation; more than his acerbic professor self that Harry had known all his wizarding life. Harry picked up the piece of red oak from his desk, which he only imagined to still be warm from touch, and threw it across the room.

AN2: YNWA!