June 2003

They had been driving the cattle for a few weeks now and Harry was settling into the new routine. He would wake before Snape usually and would make breakfast, then they'd pack up camp and ride for most of the day, keeping an eye on the cattle for wounds and wild animals. They'd stop for the day around 4 and set up a new camp to rest the horses. Snape would read usually and Harry was trying his hand at whittling. He wasn't great yet but he had the start of a little dog that reminded him of Teddy.

"When do we get to wherever it is we're taking these cows?" Harry asked one evening while they sat around the campfire, his little wooden dog and carving knife held loosely.

Without looking up from his book, Severus replied, "We'll be there perhaps in three days if the weather holds." He looked up and squinted at Harry.

"Not bored with ranch life already, Potter?" He said, idly scribbling a note in the book.

"Not exactly." He ran a hand through his messy head of hair, "I don't know what I was supposed to accomplish by being here. I still feel like I could do more in the courts for magical security. And I feel like I'm missing my godson growing up. He just turned 5 and I'm here with you, no offense."

"I've never liked children, but then again I've only been around adolescents. But I do know that children grow quickly, so I'm….sorry you're missing that time." He nodded at Harry solemnly.

Harry scratched his head. "You know, I never understood you as a teacher. I am glad I got to learn some things from you, but man were you a hardass." He chuckled softly.

Severus quirked his mouth, but turned so the younger man wouldn't see.

Harry continued to speak his mind. "What's with that book you keep reading when we stop? It must be pretty interesting."

Severus paused, and placed a finger in the book to keep his place. "This is the classic Walt Whitman book, Leaves of Grass, not that I expect you to know American muggle poets. But it was renowned at its time of publishing and remains well thought of today."

"So what does he write about? What makes Whitman so special?"

"I'd say it's about the human condition, especially that humans are sexual creatures. He covers that in multiple poems. It's also that he was attracted to men, not something common in public figures. There was even a rumor that he was in love with a U.S. non-magical President." Severus monologued.

By now, Harry was leaning forward on his stump.

"I've never read much poetry…Would you read some to me?" He asked haltingly.

Severus raised a thin eyebrow and considered it before nodding briefly. He flipped through the book, coming to a stop on a dog eared page.

He began to read with a fluid, silken tone.

"A noiseless patient spider,
I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark'd how to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,

It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself.

Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them.
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul."

Harry sat on the rock he had claimed and let Severus' voice wash over him. He could tell why Whitman was famous. There was something precious about the way he crafted words together. Harry had not heard much poetry, some primary nursery rhymes, but this, in Snape' low toned and mellifluous voice? It struck at something in the young man.

He sat quietly, absorbing the words. "Would you read more? Not even today, but while we're stopped in the evenings?"

Severus inclined his head and turned to read another poem.