In Lands Beyond the Sea.
She'd never known why Muggles bothered with them before, these seemingly flimsy craft made of wood and, what had he called it … glassfibre?
They couldn't travel through the whirlpool like the great ship of Durmstrang or move as fast as brooms or even those Muggle aeroplanes, so why on earth would anyone invest so much time and money in something so mundane as a boat?
He'd explained it, of course. It seemed he'd been patiently taught everything related to what he called "a gentleman's pursuits", whether that be horse riding, dancing or, in this case, sailing.
She hadn't understood, of course, until she'd tried it, felt the sea breeze on her face and felt the tension drain from her as the waves slowly drew the stress from her body, leaving her relaxed and calm.
He'd taught her how to sail too. Slowly, but she was starting to get the hang of helping him pilot the 50ft, twin-masted yacht that was now their home. At least she could tell the difference between a reef knot and a half hitch now. Magic still served them well for some things, at least; it would be doubtful whether he could manage the complex tasks involved in managing the sails, plotting a course and steering the vessel practically by himself without a little arcane assistance.
And so it was that they'd dropped anchor here, in the harbour of a distant port, where olive skinned men mixed with those of darker shades, hawking wares in the continuous babble of their own language, switching to pidgin English and a somewhat more inflationary price structure when her blank expression betrayed her lack of understanding.
The deep auburn plait of her hair swept damply against her back, causing her to hook it over her shoulder yet again. She'd have cut it short weeks ago, had it not been for the fact that he loved it; loved running his fingers and hands through her long hair as they moved together each night.
Many more days spent in these humid ports and she'd be cutting it off though, and he'd just have to find something else to amuse him.
They'd come a long way from the wide-eyed Muggle-born and the prim and proper pureblood first years who'd shyly greeted each other on the Hogwarts Express, unknowingly claiming each other as best friends, confidants and, eventually, lovers.
She had cried rivers over his petrified form after the attack in her second year, never fully forgiving Ginny Weasley for her part in the matter, even long after he had. When alone, and only when they were alone, he had done the same while binding and treating the ugly scars that were her consequence of crossing Delores Umbridge. He had never truly laid that grudge to rest either.
Strange really, for he never normally wept, not even towards the end of a turbulent sixth year, when a gentle Professor Sprout had informed him of the death of his parents; killed by Him for daring to call themselves some form of aristocracy and for bringing forth a wizard child.
"Stiff upper lip," he'd called it. Insensitive, she'd responded, even as his eyes had pleaded for her to understand; that he'd open up when they were alone. It had led to their first fight, and their first night together. Different ways of handling things, she supposed; Auntie Em's death had left her reeling in grief, whereas he had been ingrained with the typical English gentleman's emotional restraint from the cradle.
She stood for a moment on the quayside, having deposited their food supplies into the depths of the Swallow, the tiny dinghy they used to ferry themselves from ship to shore. Another, the Amazon, remained strapped to the hull of their ship, although it was rarely used. Whenever there was a choice, he always used the Swallow, with the blue and white flag he'd sewn himself fluttering gaily as it caught the breeze; always saying that he was more of a John Walker than a Nancy Blackett, while artfully evading her attempts to get him to explain.
She recalled his tutelage, if you could call it that, in the art of rowing, so she would not end up 'windmilling' as he had called it. She remembered his steady hands over hers, of his warm breath on her neck, and the rhythmic pull of the oars becoming a sensual rhythm they had taken to their bed.
Distracted though both her and her tutor had been though, he had imparted the necessary efficiency required to propel the small boat through the water with the minimum of effort, and before long she was raising herself onto the deck of their home, finally no longer embarrassed by the amount of skin that the traditional Muggle raiment covered, or rather, neglected to cover.
He was standing in the half enclosed wheelhouse, leaning against controls she had yet to be taught, but knew enough not to mess with, lazily enjoying a plate of neatly sliced local fruit, while trying not to let any of the juices stain the intricately complex sea-chart he was using to plot their next voyage; compasses, slide-rules and an ancient sextant his weapons of choice in navigation. GPS, he argued, was for amateurs and Americans, the definitions of which being seemingly interchangeable in his view. Only understanding half of what he was saying, she wisely humoured him, long having given up surreptitiously checking their position with location charms when he wasn't looking. His calculations were inevitably right, leading her to wonder, as many wizards and witches had in the past, how it was that Muggles could do so much without magic, and do it so well.
Of course, she would never think to suggest that he should just cast the charm to begin with and do away with his little toys. Magic, to her, was the ordinary way to do things, but to him it had always been a gift; a supplement to the tried and true methods his father had used, and his father before him. In many ways, he was as conservative as the most rabid purebloods she knew, but in a far, far nicer manner, and she wouldn't have him any other way. A warm wind ruffled the curly hair that she had come to love, causing him to close his eyes and sigh.
"Hey,"
His brown eyes focused on her as she made her presence known, depositing the bag of supplies near the hatch to be collected later. If there was one area that she seriously exceeded her partner it was in the art of cooking. Apparently the 'gentlemanly arts' didn't quite extend that far. The arrangement worked quite well though, as while the family house elf had negated any need for her to ever enter a kitchen before, the simple pleasure of combining ingredients to create something special for the two of them to share reminded her of the enjoyment she had found in potions making before the bitterness of Professor Snape had turned it into a weekly torture upon her arrival at Hogwarts.
"I paid up our anchorage for the last week," she revealed, scowling only slightly as she remembered her conversation with the harbourmaster. "I think the price might have jumped a bit when he realised I only spoke English though."
"It doesn't matter," he replied, smiling indulgently as he recalled similar experiences, the common affliction of those unfamiliar with foreign practices and languages. "Between the amount you inherited from your aunt, the sale of my parents' house and the rest of the estates, I don't think we'll need to worry."
It was not a boast, merely an acceptance that money may not equal the be all and end all, but it does enable a certain quality of life not available to most. "I don't think we'll need to worry for the rest of our lives."
She nodded, moving to stand with him. "I managed to get hold of something else while I was ashore," she remarked, hesitantly producing a battered looking newspaper and slowly unrolling it. "It's about a week old, but…"
She placed the copy of the Daily Prophet on top of his charts, obscuring his careful calculations that would get them to their next port of call. The headline almost leapt up at them from off the front page, a large moving picture filling up most of the rest of the page. The musty beige-coloured paper and black and white images were nothing like the glossy, imported Muggle tabloids that filled the tourist news-stands, their sensationalism only marginally worse than their wizarding counterpart, but it served the same purpose. For some reason, the British wizarding world hadn't quite woken up to the concept of an intellectual broadsheet yet.
"I thought we made a pact not to read this rag any mo…"
He faltered, the words catching in his throat as the picture revealed an image and headline they had both secretly feared and hoped for. A badly developed, shaky representation of the great hall of Hogwarts, with professors, students and ministry officials milling around with seemingly no order or direction; and in the background, neat lines of shrouded figures. 'You-know-who slain', the headline proclaimed, even after his death being unable to bring themselves to call him by his name.
It was hardly surprising really, that they had missed the news of his defeat. The ministry controlled trace spells dissolving on their seventeenth birthdays, they had faced the future as adults; adults with a year of study and final exams to take, but adults nevertheless.
And as adults they had fled.
Fleeing Azkaban and a year of supremacist indoctrination they had liquidated what assets they could into an offshore account, and with naught but a few personal possessions, made the freezing cross channel broom ride to mainland Europe in the dead of night, leaving behind enemies and friends alike. Not a day had passed where they didn't secretly long for those left behind.
Not a day where she didn't long for more innocent times, of being the shy addition to Hannah and Meghan's nightly gossip; of painted nails and cute boys. Not a day passed where he didn't miss intellectual and occasionally pompous debates with Ernie, sitting by the common room fire trying valiantly to ignore Zach's attitude as they set the world to rights, Wayne quietly listening on the outskirts of their debate, feeling somehow included just by being there, but never quite working up the nerve to say anything.
"We should have been there," he whispered, his fingertips lightly tracing the rows of the fallen. His eyes went wide for a moment as a sudden thought stopped him in his tracks. "Ernie? Hannah?"
She smiled gently, carefully flipping through the pages until she found the picture she needed. An immaculately presented black gentleman conversed with the smiling figure of a man she vaguely recognised as Ronald Weasley's father. With them stood the familiar figures of their oldest friends, Hannah worrying over a deep cut on Ernie's arm, who was clearly pontificating about something or other, gesturing with his free hand to emphasise his point. It wasn't particularly surprising that Ernie didn't look at all out of place in the company of the two veteran ministry officials, and Hannah always did tend to fuss over her friends.
He smiled, running his fingertips over the picture of the friends they had not seen for many months, before the casualty list overleaf caught his attention. Terry Boot, Mandy Brocklehurst, Michael Corner, faces and personalities they had grown up with, Colin Creevey, Roger Davies, Marietta Edgecombe, they had shared lessons and mealtimes with them all. His finger traced the list of those whose names would become just another statistic, finally stopping on one; Wayne Hopkins, student, Hufflepuff House.
"We should have been there," he echoed.
"Perhaps," she replied, still not fully at peace with their decision to abandon their homeland, but confident that it was still the right decision for them both. "I think that world's taken more than enough from us already though."
They lapsed into silence, their thoughts elsewhere as a warm breeze wafted across the deck, providing a temporary relief from the relentless hammer-blows of an unforgiving sun. A typical English rose, never having left the temperate and occasionally soggy boundaries of the British Isles, she had found the heat the hardest thing to bear, her fair skin bearing the brunt of the harsh climate until protection charms and familiarity allowed her to function again.
He turned the page, his eyes, long practiced at seeking out information from hours spent researching charms and ancient runes, browsed the list of the injured, Lavender Brown (lycanthrope,) Cho Chang (cutting curse,) Stephen Cornfoot (acromantula bite.) They had suffered injuries and pain defending Hogwarts, defending their friends, defending their way of life. She tried not to read any further, to see the next series of names, the one that included Meghan Jones, student, Hufflepuff House (cruciatus.)
While they had been sipping resinous local wine, sharing succulent fruit and enjoying a romantic evening watching the sun slowly sink towards the horizon, she had been writhing under the worst torture curse known to mankind. Bright, bubbly Meghan, boy crazy, with a penchant for 'sparkling stars' nail polish, and who never really comprehended that the war would ever affect her.
"Susan," he ventured, as his breath hitched in his throat and he finally pushed the paper away from him, not wanting to read any more. "Do you think we made the right decision?"
She took his hand, squeezing slightly to provide the reassurance he sought. "I know we did Justin," she responded, the grief for her schoolmates settling into a hollow, dull ache. "We might have done some good there, but more likely it would have been one of our names on that list, and I couldn't bear to lose you."
His affectionate brown eyes met her gaze, his hand warm and comforting in her own as he returned her smile. "I know," he finally affirmed, drawing her into his arms as she relaxed against him. "Do you think we should go back?"
It was a question she'd pondered herself ever since she had first heard the news. "Maybe some day,", she murmured, burying her face in his neck and breathing in his unmistakeable scent, "but not just yet."
A warm sea breeze gusted over the open expanse of water, meeting the varnished hull of the elegant vessel just clearing the breakwater and meeting the oceanic swell. The guttural noise of the engine died as the sails smoothly raised themselves into place, billowing out as they caught the wind. Two figures stood hand in hand at her rail as the Errant Badger turned her prow toward the horizon. They had tasted too much of freedom to worry about such things as exams, careers and detentions. For now, they'd see where the wind and waves took them, and worry about the future when it arrived.