AN: A rough and very much not to scale sketch of the bothy's layout can be found linked in this chapter at Ao3.

If anyone is curious about the woods I am picking, my sources of information are, personal working experience with the woods, the Pottermore articles on wand woods, and the very excellent (muggle) Wood Database site.

December 24th, 1998

London held a different sort of background noise than Diagon Alley did - more mechanical and robotic - as if in the span of Harry leaving the Leaky and stepping onto Charing Cross road, a whole industrial revolution had happened. Bright signs and Christmas adverts flickered their wares at him as he walked by, weaving his way through the tourists and shoppers with large boxes and bags. It was still early morning, not yet 10, but last-minute shoppers were never short on supply no matter what the holiday.

Alice's place was a short tube ride away, or, if Harry could manage a quiet spot, a quick apparition.

Muggles didn't normally notice these things, Harry thought to himself, as he passed a small alleyway with only two touristy-looking people in it. If a strange alien was believed capable of landing a bright blue box in the city and no one noticing, well… Harry glanced up and when they both appeared to be staring at something, took his chance and spun away.

Alice's flat was near Borough Market, a second-floor walk-up that she shared with two roommates, who worked the night shift and thus Harry had met only twice.

"Hello, foolish boy," Alice greeted, yanking open the door. It stuck slightly due to age and wonkiness and yielded with great effort. "What on earth are you wearing?"

"A cloak," Harry grumpily answered, wiping his feet and then kicking his shoes off just inside the flat.

"It's…very old fashioned," she said, looking him up and down. "How'd you…why does it look so new?"

Alice stood aside as Harry passed through, holding her hand out for the cloak to hang up. Harry kept it with him though, draping it over a kitchen chair.

"It's new," Harry said, slumping into the chair and not explaining further. "Why are some men such twats?"

Alice raised her eyebrows and put on the kettle.

"I don't know, love. I used to be one and I still don't understand'em."

She dug out two mugs and watched with a curious look as Harry winced, then absentmindedly fished a jar out of his cloak pocket.

"What the fuck is that?" Alice said. The jar was small, with a wax covered lid, and full of red sinew-like strands. He'd forgotten to take it out of his pocket after going to Slug and Jiggers.

"Tendons," Harry said, which was not quite a lie. Dragon heartstring was technically a tendon. "For a Christmas recipe."

It was a lame excuse and Alice clearly didn't buy it, but didn't question further. She came back to the table with two mismatched mugs, spoons sticking out of each, and a milk jug. Her glance to check the expiration date on the jug was not subtle, but that was Alice and Harry knew not to take milk at her place.

"All right, spill to Auntie Alice," she said, taking a seat.

Harry rolled his eyes and took the mug.

"There's nothing really to spill. We had a row. Sort of."

"Your man?"

"Yes," Harry said. "I thought we were going to continue. Now he's not sure."

"He's not out? And concerned about people finding you both out?"

She was sitting across from him, wrapped up in a chunky knit sweater and holding her mug like it was her own little furnace. Her hair was tied away from her face, but as it was curly some of it had fallen out, and it reminded him a bit of Hermione's hair. She was two years older than him, and Harry appreciated that she was like an older sister with sage advice to give.

"Yeah, well, he's older than me," Harry said.

"We've all been there," she said. "It's a small world to choose from."

"You have no idea," Harry muttered. "Severus knows it too. But he's so fucking stubborn still."

"Severus…" she repeated, under her breath.

"Keeps telling me that he's not the right match, that he's corrupted. As if I didn't mur—"

Harry looked up and saw Alice's incredulous expression.

"This is getting a little odd," Alice quietly said, hands tightly around her mug, looking at Harry with a guarded expression.

Harry sighed. Alice had gotten to know him over the summer and autumn, to know that he was an orphan, that he'd gone to school in Scotland, and she'd later met Ron and Hermione. But Harry knew there was a line between quirky and alarming, and that he was quickly approaching it.

"It's a weird name, Severus," Harry started. "It suits him though. He was my professor. He was in the same accident that I was that caused this."

He turned his hand over, showing a bit of the scarring peeking out from under his sleeve. She'd seen the scarring before, but Harry had always been evasive answering any questions about it.

"He did some bad things when he was younger, and was frankly mean as a professor, so he doesn't have the best reputation in our community. I do, though. For now."

"Which is why you're worried about coming out," Alice said.

"Yeah."

She nodded, and sat in thought. Harry flexed his fingers, enjoying the heat from the mug on his sore hand. He'd had a few good days, but the weather was turning again and he could feel the ache slowly moving along his nerves.

"How does he treat you?"

Harry remembered the year before, the care and bickering during the month in Dartmoor, the times Snape had saved him at school, and what Snape had done in the war to help him win.

"I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him."

"Tell him that then."

"It won't work," Harry said. "He hates showing his good side. I don't know if he thinks he has to be this miserable old sod because that's what he pretended to be for so long, or if he actually is one. But it's like he refuses to let himself be happy."

"Mm, hard lesson for us all," Alice said. "It's not always easy to let go of who you were and take the chance."

Harry smiled at her. He'd only ever known her as Alice, but he knew that she'd had a rough transition and that her family stubbornly continued used her deadname. She'd been kicked out, beaten up, and was still fighting to legally change her gender. But she was here, and mostly happy, and one of the first to be truly welcoming to him in the London gay community.

"That could be it," Harry said. "He did challenge me about hiding, and not being out. Maybe part of it is that I'm not out publicly yet, and he doesn't want to deal with hiding. Luke said something similar."

He sighed a bit and stirred some sugar into his tea.

"I guess he wants me to be honest with who I am," Harry said.

"I've always said you have to sort yourself out first to be happy," Alice said. "So, the question is, who are you?"

Harry nodded, staring down at the table as he thought. It was logical: he was a well-known wizard, and Snape was the same for less than positive reasons. No matter how he announced it the press would be all over them, and they'd look for any weak spot to question him about. Snape had also spent years as a spy, and might honestly just be tired of pretending to be someone he wasn't.

"No really," Alice said, tapping his hand and startling Harry out of his thoughts. "Who the fuck are you?"

She had a grin on her face when she said it, but Harry knew she was still questioning a bit of his eccentricities from earlier.

"You don't think I'm an Addams anymore? Maybe I'm a famous wizard who saved the world, then," Harry dryly countered. "Who the fuck are you?"

Alice threw back her head and laughed. "If you sing that fucking song at me, wizard-boy, I will clobber you."

"What song?" Harry asked, cup to his lips and wild smile on his face.

"Never mind," she firmly told him. "Be sure of yourself and try again with your bloke. Now, we all know why you really came here."

She pulled a box over from the side of the table and almost hit Harry's heartstring jar over with the box's lid. "To get your arse kicked at Mouse Trap."

He grinned and snatched the jar away.

"Don't be so smug. Oh, and this," Harry said, pocketing the jar, "is to make my wood carvings stronger. I'm not actually going to eat it."

She rolled her eyes and relaxed a bit.

"Do what you like with it, except put that nasty looking thing onto my table again."

"It's not that nasty," Harry countered. "And I'm sure it could be used in some recipes."

She gave him a disgusted look and continued setting up the traps on the board game.

"Do you have some where to go for Christmas?" Harry asked, continuing along that line of thought and surprised with himself that he hadn't thought to ask earlier. "Because if you don't…"

"Not a chance," she immediately answered. "Me and some other exiled trans ladies do a dinner at the book shop every year, for the other gays and lesbians and in-betweens."

"Oh," Harry nodded, picking up the dice.

"Though I appreciate the thought," Alice said. "I'm sure Christmas with the Addamses is just delightful."

…

Christmas Eve in Diagon Alley was a little less busy than in muggle London, but the alley was still packed with people gaily chatting and buying last minute food parcels and little toys. Harry was able to easily make his way to Ollivander's, keeping his right arm tucked carefully against his body to avoid bumping it against anything. He'd done well against Alice, winning three of their five games, and was feeling in a better mood than he'd woke up in.

Several people nodded at him, and some outright stared in curiosity as he went, but it wasn't much different than when he was a student and spending part of his summer there.

The stares got a little more pointed as he entered the shop.

"Making quite the impression in your first month back, Mr Potter," Ollivander said, barely looking up from the wand he was working on at the counter.

"I would have thought nearly six months away would make people care less," Harry said, unwinding his scarf.

"They waited ten years for you to return the first time," Ollivander said. He finally put the wand down and placed his hands on the counter. "I suppose, once again, that you are not here to purchase a wand."

"I'm not here to be a competitor either," Harry bluntly said. "I fix wands, as a hobby. Despite what the Prophet said, I've no interest in opening a shop."

Ollivander considered that for a few seconds, and then Harry heard the sounds of a kettle starting to boil.

"Please," Ollivander said, twirling his wand in a delicate swirl and transfiguring a stool out of a spare block of wood from his desk.

"Thanks," Harry said. He was aware of some people passing by the front windows, but other than a few glances in through the glass, no one had entered the shop after Harry.

"I became more interested in wandlore at the end of the war, and did a lot of reading over the summer. Not for duelling or battles this time, though. There's been a few people who've reached out, curious if their wands could be fixed or changed, because they weren't acting the same as before the war."

"Surely these witches and wizards could have purchased new ones, that complemented their personalities best," Ollivander said. He'd made the tea, and left the milk and sugar for Harry to do himself.

"But they didn't want to," Harry pointed out. "They liked their wands, and just wanted a small change to bring back that warmth again. A little variation of wood, an addition or a replacement, to match who they've become."

Ollivander looked deep in thought.

"The method for wand-making goes back centuries, Mr Potter," Ollivander said. "A core, a piece of wood from a gifted tree, and the skill of a wandmaker to shape and combine the two. People have tried in the past to use substandard cores and woods, but always to the detriment of the quality of magic produced."

"This isn't substandard though," Harry said. "They're all wands from your shop, and the woods used are sourced from Diagon Alley."

He saw someone peering through the shop window from outside, and recognising Rita Skeeter, whipped his wand toward the windows. In less than a second black curtains exploded across the windows, blocking her sinisterly eager and curious face.

"Powerful wand work," noted Ollivander. "Though that once again brings us back to you preventing me from making a sale."

"I'm sure Rita Skeeter was here to see the latest in wand design," Harry dryly said. He then held his wand up and twisted his hand around, showing Ollivander the small bit of black walnut that he'd added to the palm rest.

"Black walnut, seeks a master of powerful insight and good instincts. Not the easiest to master, a flair for charm work."

Ollivander squinted and studied the small, knut sized piece of walnut that Harry had added to the underside of his wand, where the bark handle was.

"Very curious," Ollivander said. "No loss of power?"

"No," Harry confirmed. "Better focus, in fact."

Harry stuck his wand back in his pocket.

"I changed, during the war. After it. It made sense to me that the wand might be looking for the person I used to be, and need a small update to match the person I am now."

"I had heard rumours of a wand fixer," Ollivander finally said, speaking over his tea cup as he held it up to his lips. "In the city. Something I dismissed as a charlatan's work."

Harry fought a scowl, and reminded himself that Ollivander had been in business for decades and as such was very defensive of his work and reputation.

"Must you always assume the worst, Mr Ollivander?" Harry asked, fighting to keep his tone neutral.

"I have standards, Mr Potter," Ollivander said. "Especially if said person –you — were to be altering my own wands. I will not be responsible for any death or disfigurement from some unauthorised changes."

Harry rolled his eyes.

"Nor if the quality of wood was inferior, or the core changed. There are only three cores that any Ollivander wand uses."

"Yes," Harry said, sitting up straighter and holding up three left fingers. "Unicorn hair, dragon heartstring, phoenix feather."

Ollivander nodded, but Harry kept speaking.

"But what of thestral hair?"

Ollivander paused, as the comment registered, and then frowned.

"There is only one well-known wand of thestral hair core, and its destruction is horrific," Ollivander said, his voice low to keep anyone from overhearing. Harry suspected that whenever wandmakers spoke to each other, the subject of the Elder wand was hushed and revered.

"Thestral hair cores are mastered only by those capable of facing death," he added.

"But what does that mean? We all face death at some point. There's bad omens regarding both thestrals and wands made with their hair, of course, but it could also be a misunderstanding," Harry calmly said. He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and revealed a neatly tied knot of wispy black hair.

"Luna sent me these."

Ollivander's expression changed swiftly, softening and losing some of its guardedness.

"She was my friend," Ollivander said, staring at the envelope before looking up at Harry. "She spoke highly of you."

"She's my friend too," Harry said. "She introduced me to the Hogwarts thestrals, made me consider that maybe they aren't an omen of death after all."

Harry brought out the Care of Magical Creatures book from his bag, and opened the page to the details of thestrals. "But perhaps their hair makes a wand best suited to someone who has accepted death. Faced it, yes, but maybe also had control of it, or come to peace with it."

"A murderer's wand," Ollivander mused. "Or a wand only for those of considerable age."

"Plenty of children see death, Mr Ollivander. Luna had."

There was a pause in the conversation as the reality of that sunk in. Harry raised the blinds again in the wand shop, satisfied that Skeeter appeared to have left the alley. He knew there'd be another article written about them, but there wasn't much he could do about that.

He felt good, happy to have someone to talk to about theories and obscure information he'd learnt about wands. He missed the strategic discussions of magical theory in the tent during his year on the run, and it was refreshing to be able to debate about it, without his life hanging in the balance of the results.

"As the wand chooses the wizard, not many will find nor choose a child destined to see death. Not when there are many more positive characteristics to choose from," Ollivander finally said. He shifted in his stool, leaning against the counter top, and the floor gave a friendly creak as it accepted his weight.

"But a fixed wand has already chosen its wizard," Harry quietly countered, putting his empty mug down. "And there are many who have seen death this year."

"Do you propose I start offering a repair service?"

"Yes," Harry immediately said. "Me. I can work out of your shop, and you get some of the profits."

Ollivander did not say no right away, and Harry felt a slight tinge of hope.

"With advertising?"

"I don't need my name on the sign, if that's what you mean," Harry said. "But I like doing this, and I want to learn more about wand making."

"Why, Mr Potter?" Ollivander asked. "You have done great things, as I imagined you would when I placed your wand with you. I even suspect that you could work nearly anywhere you please after what you've done. Why here?"

Harry offered a small smile.

"Because before I was a wizard, before magic and Hogwarts, and before I was the chosen one, I was a boy who had to fix things. Fix toys, fix watches, fix clothing, fix whatever I had to make it work for me. It was pretty satisfying. More so than knowing what I've done in battle."

Ollivander pursed his lips and considered this, finally nodding. He leaned over and rummaged through the shelves behind the desk, finally bringing a long piece of wood out on the counter, roughly the same size of a wand box. It was a rich purple in colour, with a slightly wavy grain, and appeared to be quite dense.

"I'm interested to see what you make of this, Mr Potter," he said, pushing the wood forward. "Purple heart, and though I am quite confident that it is of a tree with the gift, it has not been much studied as a wand wood."

"You want me to make a wand with this?" Harry asked, staring at it. The colour was like no wood he'd ever seen before.

"I want you to experiment with it," Ollivander corrected, and Harry very much felt like he'd just been handed a test. "I have some theories, of course, of how it would be suitable as a wand wood."

"It's really nice," Harry said, holding up the block and admiring the deep eggplant colour and grain.

"Report on your findings," Ollivander said. "And I will consider your proposal."

Harry smiled, satisfied enough with that. He hadn't expected a yes right away, and was pleased with how the conversation had gone. He'd had entirely too much tea between Alice and Ollivander's though, and stood up from the stool to head home.

"Your thestral hair," Ollivander said, pushing the envelope toward Harry, and flinching slightly when he touched the hair, as if he hadn't expected to.

"You can't see it, can you?" Harry quietly asked, as he put on his scarf.

"I am fortunate not to be able to," Ollivander acknowledged, turning back to work on his wand once again.

…

He wore his best jeans, and his favourite jumper, the oatmeal knit one that he'd had at the bothy and which only had a handful of tiny wood shavings trapped in its knit. He'd filled out the first step of the potion recipe card, with the time and date, and it had been crossed out an hour earlier. His hair refused to calm down, but Harry suspected that was due to his agitated state.

Harry heard a polite knock on his door, which annoyed him up even further. Snape had just walked in before, and now —and now—he was taking the time to use his manners. Harry walked to the entryway, his footsteps intentionally heavier than they normally were, and forcefully pulled back the door.

He was standing in a way that he blocked the entrance, firm and decided with his arms crossed, ready to face Snape for what would likely be another rough conversation.

He was not expecting to see Kingsley, nor the knowing smile that flitted across Kingsley's face.

It rather ruined the effect, Harry thought.

"Hi," Harry said after a second, standing back so Kingsley could come in.

"Well, I'm glad I'm not the person you were expecting to see. Shall I come back?"

He had a happy smile on his face and Harry couldn't help but relax a little.

"No, it's fine," Harry said, scratching behind his ear. "You're here about the letters?"

"The letters you've been ignoring? Yes, I did wonder if my owl arrived."

Kingsley looked around the room unashamedly, taking in the large desk area that Harry had set up, the takeaway carton on the coffee table, muggle tv, and the nest of blankets Harry had on the couch.

"They did; I've just been busy," Harry said. He itched to go stand by his desk, to hide what he was working on, feeling self-conscious about it

"So I see. Looks like home in here already," Kingsley said. Harry didn't get the feeling he was being sarcastic either. "But I'll get to the point before whomever you were waiting for gets here. I want to offer you a job, Harry. No NEWTS, no special exams, just immediate entrance into the auror academy and a guaranteed spot as an auror."

"I'd gathered that from the letters," Harry said, smiling. Kingsley looked expectantly at Harry, then one eye brow raised at the pause in conversation.

"And you're... going to tell me no," Kingsley guessed, looking straight at Harry's eyes with a kind and open look. "You won't, or you can't?"

"A bit of both," Harry admitted. "I've found something I like doing. Maybe it'll work out, maybe it won't. But I like it and I don't need to worry it'll get my friends killed"

"I hope you don't mean that the Prophet accurately reported on something," Kingsley said, with amusement in his voice.

"No," Harry laughed. "I do work on wands, as you can see. But I'm not opening a shop, and certainly not trying to compete with Ollivander."

Kingsley nodded, and his gaze was drawn to the work desk again. "If that's the only roadblock, we can certainly arrange your schedule for hobby ti…"

Silently, Harry drew his wand down the right sleeve of his jumper, cutting open the threads and revealing the shiny scarred skin on his arm. It snaked up from the very ends of his fingertips, wrapping around his forearm and up around his bicep like his arm was prey being constricted.

"I don't trust it," Harry said. "Not for being an auror. I did what I had to do last year, but I'd like to try living a bit without having to hunt someone down or run for my safety."

Harry didn't much like to look at it himself, and once he felt Kingsley had seen enough, he dragged his wand back up his arm, watching as the threads reached out and found their severed mates, knitting the sleeve back together again.

"Sometimes we forget that this has been the focus of your life since you were a child," Kingsley said, his happy mood subdued by Harry's arm, "What happened?"

"A curse," Harry calmly replied, offering nothing more. He didn't want pity for the last seven years – he'd had his angry moments, his denial, his determined acceptance. But now he was free of the prophecy, and free of the expectation to be the hero.

Before Kingsley could press for further information, the echoed steps of someone walking swiftly up the stairs came to their attention.

"I have not changed my mind," Snape said, confidently striding through the door. He seemed surprised to find Kingsley there and stopped as soon as he saw him.

"Shacklebolt," Snape said.

Kingsley looked between the two and gave a small bow. "My cue to leave. Harry, I'll have the letters stopped, and if there's anything I can do, just let me know."

"Start, Potter, I have places to be," Snape said, after Kingsley had gone and it was just the two of them.

"Do you?" Harry asked, legitimately curious. He then shook his head to regain his focus. "Regarding yesterday's conversation, you're right about hiding. It won't be a secret for much longer."

Snape gave him a dubious look, but Harry knew that it didn't mean Snape wasn't listening.

"I'm doing an interview with Denis Creevey, for his magazine. Now that the war's over, it's time for me to be truthful about who I am, regardless of what they think."

"How very brave of you," Snape said, and though there was sarcasm, the comment wasn't completely so. He seemed to be waiting on Harry, to see what else Harry would say, and it was like the conversations they used to have in Dartmoor once more.

"Look," Harry continued. "What I'm saying is, give it some time. Don't…don't say no and never consider it again. Us."

"It's a foolish idea, Harry," Snape finally said, but his voice was softer, and he looked like he didn't fully believe himself either.

"I'm good at those, aren't I?" Harry said, with a depreciating smile. "But maybe we deserve some normality now too."

Snape nodded, looking slightly annoyed with himself, and drew a small bag out of his pocket. Harry watched with great curiosity as Snape pointed his wand at the bag, shakily pulling a small gift out of it.

"Happy Christmas, Potter," Snape said.

Harry grinned. He held his wand out and summoned a little box of his own, handing it over.

"Happy Christmas, Severus."

Snape tucked the gift under his arm, holding it carefully, and gave Harry a curt nod.

"Good luck."

He spun around, his cloak swirling and brushing the doorframe as he left.

Harry locked the door and then immediately opened the box, surprised to find a bottle of custom-brewed finishing oil for wands and woodworking.

He put the gift down, feeling a little better; a bit hopeful that Snape hadn't fully closed off the idea of them dating. It lasted for a few moments, before the dread of coming out settled in his stomach again.

…

December 25th, 1997

Harry came out of the washroom, keeping his day clothes against his chest as he walked to his side of the bed. The bothy was heated fairly well through the cast iron stove, and he felt fine in just pyjama bottoms. The potion from Madame Pomfrey had arrived earlier that afternoon, disguised mail drop via an owl rescue centre that was ten miles away. Harry thought it tasted just as bad as Skele-grow, and hoped it worked just as quickly.

"Did you say seven, earlier?" Harry asked, rubbing some of the salve on his arm. Snape was sitting on his side of the bed, in pyjamas transfigured to fit him from some of the spare clothes Harry had left there. His right arm seemed to be kept in place against his chest by magic, and he'd also set up a sheet to hang down from the rafter, splitting the bed in half to give privacy.

"I said many things earlier," Snape evasively told him. He roughly shook his blanket out, barely missing Harry, and seemed to be purposefully avoiding staring at Harry's bare chest.

"About the horcruxes," Harry bluntly said. "The only way I can stop this is to destroy them, and then go after him."

Harry sat on the edge of the bed and drew his legs up, awkwardly crawling to the front of the bed on three limbs.

"If you know that there's more, you need to tell me. Dumbledore's not here to demand secrets anymore."

"This is all still his plan, Potter. Put into action long before your voice dropped," Snape said. He also had struggled a bit to get into bed, which Harry watched with slight amusement via shadow on the divider sheet.

"I don't care, Snape," Harry said. "I'm here in a bothy with you at Christmas. Clearly things aren't going to anyone's plan."

"Much appreciated, Potter," Snape waspishly said.

"Being headmaster under You Know Who was your plan all along, then," Harry sarcastically responded.

"It certainly was not," Snape snapped. "I will consider what to tell you. Tomorrow."

"Fine," Harry grumbled. He yanked his blanket it up to his chin and closed his eyes.

Thirty minutes later, when Harry rolled over for the 12th time in his unsuccessful bid to fall asleep, he noticed the shadows on the curtain moving. There were no sounds –Harry suspected that Snape had used a silencing spell– but he'd curiously forgotten to do anything about the shadow on the blanket divider.

There wasn't much light in the bothy at night, and the forest around it prevented much from reaching the windows even when the moon was full. But there was a small light in the bathroom that had been installed by the muggles who'd built it, and that was enough for Harry to see with.

He stared, fascinated, watching the rhythmic movement of one shadowy limb moving up and down, speed fairly steady. There was no doubt what it was, and Harry's mind raced as he thought: was it Snape's fix for insomnia? For clarify of thought? Or…because Harry had been shirtless earlier?

The arm sped up and Harry couldn't look away, willing himself not to move lest Snape hear him and stop. His own erection pushed against the fabric of his pyjamas, hopefully unnoticeable under his blankets. Snape was unnaturally silent, most certainly a spell had been cast, and Harry could see his rhythm becoming more erratic the closer he was to coming, before finally he did.

Harry stayed painfully still for the next few moments as Snape manoeuvred to get out of the bed and move to the washroom. His mind was replaying the shadow show over and over, and Harry barely waited for the door to close before shoving his hand down his trousers. It took an embarrassingly short time to come; masturbation was something he partook of fairly often but usually with stimulus that was made up in his own mind. This was far more enticing, and Harry only managed to swallow his groan at the last second when he orgasmed.

A weaker clean up spell than he liked with his left hand mostly sorted everything, and though he knew his brain would be replaying that for a while longer, Harry quickly pretended to be asleep when Snape came back out of the washroom.