The vestiges of his dreams were sweet—sweet as anything on his tongue. He'd been panting, there'd been a hand resting delicately above his stomach, and he'd been filling his belly with breath so that he might touch the palm at the top of the up and down. There'd been a mouth meeting his mouth, with composure, licking at him in a slow rhythm and then feasting intermittently until he thought he'd beg for breath. There was a hand…

It was his own hand, he was realizing as he opened his eyes, blinking out of the haze.

Strands of fine black hair against his ear.

"Urgh!" Harry ripped his own hand out of his pajama bottoms, disgusted with himself. Was there anything of his that Snape couldn't touch—

"What's wrong?" Talbott was in bed with him, Harry's sudden outburst jolting him awake.

"Nothing, sorry." Harry turned to hide his face, his lower half, his whole being, like one name was written all over it. It was still dark outside, not quite dawn. "Go back to sleep."

Talbott turned back over beside him and he watched the sky whiten outside the window. As soon as he began to drift off again, Talbott was waking him up—they would leave together for the ministry.

"I hate having a job," Harry said, as he sleepily dressed.

Talbott, already dressed, sat at the edge of the bed, waiting. "You're spoiled."

Harry went into the bathroom, to take a closer look at his tired face in the mirror. "What do you do about your face?"

He heard Talbott snort. "What?"

"I look like I just woke up."

There was a pause, then Talbott appeared in the mirror, behind him. "Wash with some cold water."

Harry did as he was told, and when he was drying himself on a towel, noticed Talbott was still looking at him in the mirror. His face was impassive.

"What?" Harry asked, turning around.

"Why do you care so much not to look like you've just woken up?"

Harry stiffened, but tried to seem unbothered. "It's too early for that, Talbott." He left the bathroom and Talbott followed him as he went to the wardrobe to look for socks.

"I'm really smart, you know. A Ravenclaw. I went through some Auror training and everything."

Harry chose a green pair and sat on the floor to put them on. "Oh yeah?"

"Mm. So there's no use in trying to hide anything from me." Talbott dropped to the floor, began to crawl towards him.

Harry studied Talbott's face as he approached, as he forced him on his back with proximity and he hovered over him. There was no animosity, only a curious look. Talbott pressed down to kiss him. With tongue.

Harry pushed him back at the chest. "Do you think I'm some sort of territory you have to piss on?"

"No," Talbott smiled, and gave him space, sitting back on his heels. "I just want you to stop feeling bad for me. I'm a big boy, you can tell me how it is."

"I had a dream about Snape last night."

Talbott frowned neutrally and then nodded. "Okay. Was it sexual?"

"Yes." Harry crossed his legs on the floor. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's natural. Your physical attraction to him doesn't bother me."

"It isn't just that."

"I know. That's the part that—I mean, look—"

"Do you want to break up?"

Talbott laughed. "That's your favorite line. I don't want to break up, I want to finish a conversation." Harry laid flat on his back and sighed to the ceiling, not wanting to look at Talbott as he spoke. "I understand you. Or at least, I think I do. And I like you. This thing with Snape, to me, is just like a hard winter. I'll suffer through it with you but it will pass and I'll be there at the end of it. And he won't be. I don't need you to feel nothing for him at all times."

"Do you need anything for me?" Harry asked the ceiling. "Because I'm not sure I have much to give."

"That's now. It doesn't bother me because there's the future. I'm playing the long game."

He sat back up on his elbows to look at Talbott. "Why would you choose me to play the long game with?"

Talbott shrugged. "Fate chose you. Why shouldn't I? Besides, I happen to like your moods."

He stood and gave Harry a hand to pull him off the floor. They left soon after. Harry made them get coffee, take the train. They'd be late, Talbott said, but he didn't care. They walked in separately, to avoid the attention of being seen arriving together, but Talbott was waiting for him out of view of the lift on the floor of the Department of Mysteries.

They walked down the corridor. "Why aren't you upstairs?" Harry asked.

"Listen," Talbott said. "I won't come round tonight. I think it's time you missed me a little."

"I won't," Harry said, trying to deliver it cold but losing the battle to a smile.

"You little shit," Talbott laughed.

The sound of another lift arriving rang at the other end of the corridor. They both looked and saw the doors open to reveal Snape.

"Anyway, seriously." Talbott made a point to draw Harry's attention back. Harry felt like he was taking his eyes off an attacker. "It's not a punishment, it's just space."

"Like you could punish me."

"I won't come till you ask."

"Okay," Harry said, not daring to say more because he knew Snape was near.

Snape breezed past them. Harry felt like he'd walked away with some part of him.

"Right—bye."

When Harry entered the conference room, everyone was there and he was last. The only seat available was next to Snape at the other head of the table, opposite Greengrass and her assistant. He took his seat, resisting the urge to drag the chair further away.

Greengrass stared down the table at Harry and Snape. Snape didn't flinch, but Harry shifted in his chair uncomfortably—satisfying Greengrass.

"Today," she began, and looked at her silver wristwatch, "While it's still, thankfully, morning, we shall complete some work on what the literature calls objectivity anchoring. It is the same concept explained to us by Mr. Weasley yesterday morn, however, instead of anchoring in a moment to begin, this practice asks that the memory is implicated by objective truths. Together, you must come up with a list of essential facts that can color the landscape of the incantation, ground it in time and space, and strengthen the possibility of its effectiveness in reversing a calamity. Mr. Sapcerios, please," she indicated to her assistant.

The slight man waved his wand to unravel a scroll that reached from Greengrass's end of the table, to Harry and Snape's. He waved it a second time and words appeared, darkly inked at the top of the scroll that Harry had to read upside down.

Essential Truths

"Think of some," Greengrass commanded.

"Essentials truths," Hawthorne contemplated in a whisper. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Essential truths…"

"The first wizard was Merlin?" Savage ventured.

Hermione was developing that crease between her eyes that communicated a deep concern. "Magic predates Merlin by thousands of years."

"Sorry," Savage said, not embarrassed. "I haven't had any coffee."

"I thought the same thing," Ron sort of mouthed across the table to Savage.

"Perhaps," Snape said, loud, like he was eager to discourage more sad attempts, "our facilitator can guide us in the right direction by setting some less than basic parameters."

Greengrass obliged. "These truths should pertain to the memory, in some way. Imagine them, if you will, as warnings to potential victims of a calamity, who might lose sight of why they shouldn't seek their dead loved ones in another time or place if the continuum is already torn or why they should avoid displays of power."

"Couldn't you just tell us what the truths are?" Ron asked. "I mean if they're truths, it's not like we're going to argue with them."

"It's best if you formulate the list without my interference."

Ron ran a hand through his hair. "What if we had one about Voldemort and the war? Since the calamity, if it's even begun, was caused by a different muggle-hating murderer. It might be good, as a reminder. That, what—evil doesn't win or whatever."

"Maybe something like 'Harry Potter defeated Voldemort in the Battle of Hogwarts in 1997.'"

Hawthorne's words appeared on the scroll, after the number 1.

"No, no," Harry said, and the words were scratched off and then disappeared. "We all defeated Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts. That wasn't one event, it was many, combined, with the help of at least a dozen people and 17 years of history to make that happen."

"Okay, what about 'Harry Potter was chosen to defeat Lord Voldemort, the muggle hating lunatic, by prophecy. He completed that prophecy at the Battle of Hogwarts."

Hermione shook her head. "But Harry wasn't chosen by the prophecy. He was chosen by Voldemort, who acted to begin the chain events of the prophecy. We'll never get anywhere with statements like that, they get to the heart of too many things to disagree about. For example, do we think that prophecies are fulfilled by people or do people make their own fate?"

"Well maybe you or Harry could suggest one instead of shooting all our ideas down," Ron said.

"Magic exists?" Harry suggested.

"And all magic has a cost," Hermione added. Their words appeared on the scroll, a newly appointed number 1.

There was silence around the table. "Yeah, alright," Hawthorne confirmed.

Hermione addressed Greengrass. "May I present a muggle concept that I think might be helpful to us all?"

Greengrass looked at Hermione for a moment and then took a breath to give her response. "If you must."

"It's a psychological and spiritual concept called the collective unconscious. It's the belief that there exists a kind of eternal memory in us all, that we're not aware of, but is guided by the past. Knowledge that we've inherited from our ancestors. It's used to explain why all our stories have heroes that defeat evil, why it's natural to be afraid of the dark. The supernatural in muggle stories might even be a signal from muggle ancestors that magic is real."

The table was quiet again, the assistant's wand hand completely relaxed. Hermione licked her lips and went on. "I don't really know that I believe in it but it's exactly the sort of thing that might be useful in the event of a tear in space and time, exactly the sort of thing that could be tapped into when the world as we know it is being threatened."

"What are you suggesting?" Hawthorne asked.

"I'm suggesting that we try to think about what our ancestors would want us to remember."

"Which ancestor? Salazar Slytherin?" Snape said.

"Well yes, not all of them were so wise," Hermione replied archly. "I was thinking about the ones who were burned at the stake, who were drowned, who were crushed to death under rocks by muggles who were afraid of them."

"Merlin," Ron said. "Crushed to death?"

"Yes! And all this they endured or witnessed inflicted on others, so that magic would remain a secret."

"So something about why the Statute of Secrecy is important?"

"Yes."

They were silent and then Hawthorne suggested an edit so that number 1 became 'Magic is power and all power has a cost.'

"Then what about something like 'Magic is a rare gift but the powerful outnumber the muggles—something like that.'"

Mr. Sapcerios waved his wand and an edited version of the idea appeared as number 2.

"Nice wording," Hermione praised.

"Thank you."

After some hours and not just one argument, the scroll eventually read:

Essential Truths

Magic is power and all power has a cost.

The powerless outnumber the powerful.

No magic can change that being alive means suffering,

And fear of death is fear of the unknown,

And time can bury death but not erase it,

And time is the sacred map of life through all things,

And memory is proof of life.

Greengrass declared her satisfaction. "This should be sufficient. It expresses the importance of returning to a natural order. We will break now for lunch and return to complete the next step."

Outside, where they took a walk to the nearest place for lunch, Harry mocked her with Ron.

"'That is sufficient,'" Ron said, straining his voice down to achieve her high tone.

"'If you must,'" Harry repeated.

"I didn't quite like the sound of that either," Hermione puffed, freezing cold. "But at least you listen to her. I'd like to command that kind of respect from you two."

"You have our complete respect," Ron said.

Harry agreed. "Our devotion."

He saw her smile out of the corner of his eye. "Harry, how are you doing with Snape being there? I'm really sorry you had to sit next to him. But it's really your fault, because you were late. Oh, stop it, Ron." Ron had nudged her to shut up.

"It's awful." He didn't need to lie, not with the cold eating them up and their faces in their scarves. The sun was out, but it didn't help, somehow. "Everytime he says anything, it hurts."

Hermione hooked her arm in his but let go soon, as they'd reached their destination. A place called Elvis's bistro with pictures of Elvis everywhere and tiny booths, one of which they huddled in.

"You've lived through worse," Ron said, after they ordered.

"It doesn't feel like I have. It's like Dumbledore was always trying to tell us, love is the most powerful magic there is. But I never got that he meant something else about it, too." Hermione was looking at him like he would break. Harry teased her. "Stop it. This is why I don't tell you anything." He didn't tell them other things, like how he wondered where Snape had gone for lunch, how he imagined the man sitting by himself somewhere, eating alone.

Hermione went to the toilet. Ron's head followed her and when the door closed behind her, he turned to Harry and said, "Dawlish had an update on the mole."

Ron, unlike Talbott, didn't keep Harry from Auror talk; Hermione would smack him if she knew.

"What?" Harry said, hoping Hermione was applying eyeliner or doing something else that would take forever.

"Don't you remember? Before we'd gotten to Robin Hood, we were attacked—"

"Of course I remember, I meant what did Dawlish say?"

"One of the leads that never went anywhere was the one about it maybe being an Unspeakable, right?"

"Right."

"Well the other day, Dawlish went to the lost and found looking for his scarf. You know what a mess that place is, even with a good accio, I told him he's better off just getting a new one but his great aunt who swore he was her favorite great nephew or something gave it to him so he wasn't too keen to do that."

"Ron! Hermione," Harry whisper-yelled.

"Right, sorry, so he goes down there and in all that mess, he spots this little piece of black muggle techrology—"

Harry opened his mouth but thought better of it.

"—called an 'earpiece'. Do you know what that is?"

"Like a listening device?"

"Yes! So Dawlish thought that was weird. His great aunt used to be very lucky, so he felt she was giving him a big sign or something from the other side—"

"Ron!"

"Right—so he looks up the magical signature for who sent it there and it was a person named Emilia Rollsbury. One of the Unspeakable librarians."

It was a heavily guarded place. Hermione applied for access many times but was always denied. "And only an Unspeakable could have been in there."

"Right," Ron confirmed. "In fact it's such a small number of people who have access that at first she tried to just return it directly. But no one claimed it."

Hermione exited the toilet and was headed back to their table.

Ron, well-practiced in the art of keeping things from Hermione, went on to Harry as usual. "I'm a little bent up about it to be honest."

"Bent up about what?" Hermione took her seat again.

Ron feigned dismissiveness. "Nothing, just, you know Dawlish had a hunch about something that's maybe panning out and I wish I could have that too, you know, hunches. Good instincts. That's what all the good Aurors have."

Hermione took Ron's hand, earnest. "You are a good Auror, Ron."

Harry and Ron avoided each other's eye for the danger of laughing.

They all resumed their seats from the morning, which meant that Harry was forced to reclaim his place beside Snape. Snape's hands were present, deliberate. Harry observed them from the corner of his eye. Snape went from bracing them on the arms of the chair, to resting them, interlaced, in his lap.

Harry looked away.

"This afternoon will be dedicated to the potentially more difficult task of getting all of you to agree on a map and timeline of the events at Robin Hood. You were there for one night and one day, correct?"

Hermione confirmed.

"Let's begin with how you arrived there. Who arrived first, just outside the field?"
"You mean the—there was a big purple part right outside the town that you couldn't walk backward out of and then there was a bigger part of it that extended more beyond that—which do you mean?"
"Begin with where you were when you realized you couldn't do magic."

Hermione relayed what happened at the petrol station; Savage explained her and Hawthorne's being with Dawlish. Mr. Sapcerios unfurled another parchment and was swishing his wand in quick little motions over it, drawing their names and positions as if on a map, working to converge them with Harry, Hermione, and Snape's.

Greengrass reiterated: "So Hawthorne and Savage were stationed outside the village before you all arrived with the former Death Eaters in tow? Mr. Potter and Professor Snape in one vehicle and Ms. Granger and Ms. Weasley in the other?"

They confirmed.

"Ms. Savage and Mr. Hawthrone, were there moments when you were outside the village that you'd spoken to each other without the interference of a third party?"

"Yes."

"Good, that's ideal. The more people involved in creating the memory, the more difficult the task. So we will begin at that point in time, when you were all in smaller couplings, before tackling the larger group memories and beginning the real timeline from when you first stepped foot in the village."

Harry's stomach dropped.

"All of you are to find separate rooms on this floor and use the time to agree on an objective retelling of your time together before reuniting outside the village."

"What if we can't remember what we said?" Hawthorne asked.

"You may use the Pensieve to store the memory independently for review. You will find it behind the second door on the right when you exit this room."

"And if you don't know how to pull a memory out of your head?" Ron was sheepish.

"Mr. Sapcerios will show you."

Harry wanted to scream. He looked at Hermione, who made a sympathetic, but helpless, face at him as she began to rise from her chair and follow the filing out of the door. Then he realized Snape had been first to leave and now he had to look for him.

Harry went left and tried the first door next to the one they'd been meeting in. It was another meeting room that looked exactly like theirs, and it was empty.

He tried the next door, feeling like he'd find a boggart inside. No one.

Then he tried the door at the end of the hall where he found Snape waiting for him, leaning against the edge of a pew—it was an empty courtroom, not unlike the one Harry had to stand trial in when the ministry was trying to get him expelled from Hogwarts.

He almost opened his mouth to ask why he'd had to play hide and seek to find Snape but then Snape shut the door behind him, wandlessly. The sound echoed, like every other tiny movement they made.

"She only bought us a little time," Snape began. His voice reverberated. "Eventually, we'll have to have it out in front of them."

Harry didn't like the sound of that prophecy. He was fuming. He felt that if he said anything he would explode. Or dry heave. The worst part was that Snape seemed to understand. He wasn't pressing him to speak and they just sat in silence.

Harry took a few deep breaths. He wouldn't be immature. He would be strong, like in his letter to Snape. Measured. "I was—we were arguing. I didn't understand why you almost killed Dolohov."

"I wanted to kill Dolohov because he was clearly a threat to you and you were judging me for it—"

"Maybe I was, but you make it sound like such a bad thing. I just wanted you to see that there's another way, there's always another way."

"You sound like Dumbledore."

Harry took a position behind the witness chair in the center of the room, to put something solid between them. "That's fine. It's the difference between right and wrong, it's been the same since the dawn of time, there's nothing to be original about."

Snape was smirking. "You think cavemen thought it was wrong when they killed each other for food?"

"That's not the point!"

"That's right. We're not here to discuss the history of ethics. We're here to agree on each other's perspectives in that moment so that we might remember it more objectively."

"Impossible," Harry muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"It's impossible," he said, louder. It echoed, again, as did Snape's movements when he began pacing. Harry wished he would stop moving.

Snape faced away from Harry. "Explain to me," Snape said, a precarious patience coloring his voice, "the essence of your concern in that moment."

"You," Harry said, fast, so he couldn't think twice of it. "My concern was you and your soul. I didn't want you to taint it." He bit his tongue. I wanted it whole, for myself.

"That's an explanation I can accept," Snape said stiffly. "At the time, you were expressing what was, to my mind, an intolerable sympathy for Dolohov with so little regard for your own safety." He turned on the spot to face Harry, stiff as a board. "But through that phrasing, I can understand the position you took," he said, loudly, like he was announcing it to the audience in the empty benches of the courtroom. "I will explain myself. Are you listening? Don't roll your eyes at me."

"I'm listening."

"My main concern was your life. Not just for the present moment, but for ever. Amycus and Dolohov spent years trying to kill you and they failed. Then, still, 5 years after the war had ended, they made it their entire business to conspire against you. When would you have peace?"

"I don't believe that." It felt loud despite him almost whispering it.

Snape's eyes flashed with anger. "I believed you! What's so difficult about believing me?"

Harry lost it. "Maybe because you lie so much!"

"I'm not lying!"

He was breathing hard, the words he couldn't say tumbling around inside of him. If Snape cared so much about his peace, then why did he leave him?

Snape raised his chin. "Fine. You want the truth?"

Harry was gripping the back of the witness chair, hard. "Don't I look like I want the truth?!"

"I'd spent the better part of my life trying to protect you. What would it mean about me, if I'd failed?"

"That I can believe." Harry left the room.

When they rejoined Greengrass and Sapcerios, they both chose seats far away from each other; they were the first to finish and had their pick in the room.

"Any hiccups I should be aware of?" Greengrass almost had a smug look. It was met with silence.

It was an unbearable half hour before Ron and Hermione returned. Hawthorne and Savage were last.

Greengrass spoke again. "We will not try to extract the pair's memories today, but rather, the next time we meet. I have homework for you all, which is why we will not meet tomorrow. We will meet again the day after next."

"The day after next is Sunday," Ron said, pointedly.

Greengrass ignored him. "I need you all to physically, meaning with a quill and parchment, retrace your route from the entrance of the village, down to the hotel. And at each point, either in rest or travel, indicate your strongest emotion, your rationalizing, your inner thinking, your questions. As much as you can remember."

Harry dreamt again of Severus. Not Snape, not the cold statue of a man in those Department of Mystery meetings, but Severus, the one who—

His face was buried in Harry's neck, his body working over him, inside and out of him.

Lips to the shell of his ear. "Has he been inside of you?"

"Yes," Harry said. His eyes rolled back—he was rewarded with deeper thrusts, balls deep, and a neutral pace.

"You're not mine," Severus said. "But you want to be, don't you?"His hips, his dick, between Harry's legs stopped moving. "Spread a little wider for me."

Harry shifted down.

"No, no," Severus said, spanking the side of Harry's thigh and pulling further out of him. "I said spread wider, not take me all the way in. Don't pretend to misunderstand."

"I hate you," Harry said, spreading wider.

Something demonic flickered across Severus's face. "Me?"

"Yes," and Harry was awarded again with movement. He relaxed his head back in relief.

"Which part of me?" Severus was putting his weight on the pin of Harry's wrists with both his hands to bring them back together, all the way in, again and again. "Answer me. Which part of me do you hate so much?"

"All of you."

"All of me?"

"All of you," he begged.

"I'm having wet dreams, like a teenager," Harry said, sullen. He was keeping his arms and legs crossed in case talking about it set him off (he refused to masterbate), although he felt pretty confident that the mere presence of his therapist would keep that from happening.

"You seem upset about that."

Harry sent her an incredulous look. "I'm furious about it, of course. How could my body betray me like that? To be attracted to him, still, after all this time and shit had passed—to, to—" to crave him. For his body to feel like it was calling out to him of all people. "I want to feel this way about Talbott. He deserves it," Harry said, unable to keep the fierceness out of his voice. "I haven't wanted to have sex in months and the minute we're in the same room together, it's like all I can think about. That can't be normal."

"As frustrating as this feeling is, I'm sure, you should refrain from judging yourself for it."

She kept talking but Harry hardly listened to her. What were the chances that Snape was actually doing some black magic on him, just like Ron had suggested a million times before? Crunching up bat bones under the light of a full moon and—and, fuck, but how did he just smell like smoke? And other temporary things like the strike of a match whilst it burned and something else, like a truffle or the forest floor or both.

"Harry?"

"Sorry?"

"Did you hear what I said?"

"No, I'm sorry."

"It's alright. I said people can be right for each other chemically, but not mentally or emotionally. And vice versa."

"Chemically?"

"Yes- we produce pheromones, do you know what those are?"

"No." Unless they were priests that could help excise him of his demon lust, he wasn't sure knowing about them mattered much.

"They are chemical communications secreted by our skin meant to interact with other people. Some say it's our body's way of finding us a good match—we're attracted to and we attract people with pheromones that compliment our own. In some animals, it's a way to sense danger or track a scent. There are no definitive answers, especially in regards to human pheromones, but we know this kind of signaling exists."

"So the chemicals he produces and the chemicals I produce might be…compatible?"

"Yes."

"And they're supposed to find you a good match?"

She looked amused. "Ostensibly."

"They've found me a horrible match."

She laughed openly, this time. "It's not really well researched, so no one's sure."

"No, it makes sense, that my body would do this sort of thing." His cursed body that had sucked in and held on to a piece of Voldemort's soul. And Snape's body that was—yes it was Snape's body, his and Snape's body, that had done this, he wouldn't accept the blame alone. Their bodies. Together. Sweaty and slipping over each other in the sheets… "Help me," Harry pleaded.

"Harry." She put her pen in her notebook and set it down on the table beside her. "First, you have to stop wanting so hard for it not to be true. Your attraction is real. And there's nothing wrong with it, or bad about it, even though acting on these impulses might not give you your desired outcomes."

She waited for him to respond to that but he didn't.

"Can you tell me what were some things about sex with Snap that you liked?"

"I can't." There was no way he could say those things to her.

"That's alright. Maybe you can think about it, on your own, and see if there's anything you can challenge yourself to ask Tanner for."

He wanted Talbott to take hold of his wrists and keep them above his head, to put a hand around his throat when they kissed. But not in a way that was about power, in a way that was about direction. He wanted Talbott to be gentle, to make him beg for the firm hand. He wanted Talbott to know when he should fuck him slow and when he should fuck him fast and he wanted to argue more and he wanted Talbott to say filthy things and then act like he was above it.

"That'd be ridiculous," Harry said. "It'd be like asking Tanner to be a completely different person." Being horny was making him rude.

"You can believe that," she said. "You can go on believing that and wait for someone that ticks all the right boxes."

"Or?"

"Or you could try something else."

She ended the session quickly after that—she did that when Harry was being difficult and it worked because Harry always still paid her for the full hour and came humbler the next time until he'd pissed her off again and the cycle would begin again.

It'd been raining heavily. At first Harry thought the banging was lightning- but then he realized it was the door. He felt his haunches raise- he never had unexpected guests. And it wasn't like Talbott to go back on his word.

He was in the library, composing a message to Hermione on his tiny phone, roasting his bare legs in front of the fire. He rose from the couch and headed to the threshold—he was almost afraid to put his head in the corridor and see whose name was written on the door. So he just listened.

The banging came again.

He stuck his head out. The writing in blue said Severus Snape.

Harry turned around and looked at the library. It was kind of a mess-—wait, fuck that, that didn't matter, he wouldn't let Snape in that far—what did he want?

The banging came again and then a fear he didn't understand came up in him, that Snape would give up and walk away.

He kept the phone in his hand and marched to the door, quickly. He'd get this over with.

Snape was there, surely, in his doorway. Not walking the other direction. It was clear he'd just started to get wet- and then a couple of drops fell from the door frame on his face and dripped down his nose. He didn't touch them, just looked at Harry, his head cast down. Lightning struck somewhere deep in the sky behind him and Harry was blinded momentarily when the light left his face.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked.

"I need to speak to you."

"Is it a life-threatening emergency?"

"No."

Harry slammed the door in his face.

He stormed back to the library. He sat on the floor, in front of the fire, livid. So angry and his heart beating so fast.

More banging. It got louder, and maybe Snape was yelling something too, but Harry couldn't hear.

He was itching to go back. To let him in, to hear him out.

Then he was back in front of his door, out of control of his body, opening up.

"What?!"

"Can. I. Come in?" Snape sounded angry.

"No!"

Harry tried to slam the door shut again, but Snape held a hand out and stopped it.

"Get your hand off of my door."

"We need to talk," Snape said, an emphasis on every word as if he thought that would change Harry's mind. "Outside of that blasted room in the ministry! Surely that can't be so repulsive to you."

"It IS repulsive to me. You big fucking dickhead- stop asking me to come in if you're just going to try and force your way in anyway." Harry was trying to close the door again. Then he stopped and realized he was avoiding meeting Snape's eye; that was a manageable task across the table in the Department of Mysteries but a more formidable one in this close range—but he met them anyway.

Snape swallowed, Harry could tell because he glanced down at the throat, watched it move. "You can insult me inside," he hushed.

"Oh, are you annoyed that you're getting wet? I'll insult you here. How do you even know where I live?"

Snape looked at him like he was stupid. "Is that a serious question?"

"Don't look at me like that! Yes, it is."

"You're incredibly irresponsible with information about your whereabouts- more so than usual these days."

"So you're stalking me?"

Harry achieved it, got that glint going in Snape's eye that meant he touched a nerve. "One hardly has to stalk Harry Potter to get an earful about him."

"Fans," Harry taunted, "fans hardly have to stalk me to—"

"Believe me, I do everything in my power to stay away from that utter swill the ministry calls a newspaper. It is simply a testament to your impetuous carelessness that I know where you lay your head at night—"

Harry attempted to interrupt this lecture with another door slam, but he was blocked again.

He drew his wand from his pocket. Snape glanced sideways—Harry lived in a very muggle neighborhood but he didn't care. They'd think it was lightning when he cast a spell to blast Snape off his doorstep.

"I'm going to tell you one more time—leave me alone. You're not coming in." He was getting a little wet—the wind was blowing the rain in and his vision was becoming obscured as the lenses of his glasses were splashed with fat droplets.

"I can stay out here all night," Snape said, his voice going low again, but Harry somehow heard it over the blood in his ears. Maybe it was because suddenly, they seemed close. "I can call the Prophet and let them take a few photographs of me sleeping outside your door. How would your brawny boyfriend like that?"

"I can see exactly why my mum dumped you," Harry said, hoping with viciousness that that would drive Snape away.

"Harry—"

"DON'T say my name!" He couldn't say anymore without revealing himself. So he waved his wand and saw Snape quickly moving himself out of the way of the swinging door.

He tamed his breathing and turned on his heel to the library.

He sat on the couch. He was looking for his phone for a minute before he realized he was still clutching it in a tight fist, in his left hand. He unclenched it and placed it on the table, stretching his fingers. The library let out to the courtyard- he looked into the blackness past the windows and wondered if Snape would find a way back there. He grabbed his wand and used it to draw the curtains and made sure the door was locked.

He tried going back to composing his message to Hermione. He tried to make little dancing figures with brackets and dashes but then lost his focus. Snape, having the gall to show up at his house and ask for an audience. And the thought he was dreading- what could he have to say?

He walked back to the corridor, pointed his wand at the door. "Spectare."

Snape was still there, leaning against the threshold of his house. "Harry," he yelled into the door frame.

"I told you not to—"

"Memoriam collectam will not work if we don't speak to each other," Snape yelled, over the rain, through the wood. "Really speak to each other."

"Finite Incantatem." Harry couldn't see him anymore. It was just the door.

"It won't work if we're not—if I'm not—" Snape's muffled voice tore off into clapping thunder.

"If you're not what?"

"Honest!"

"Then it'll never work because you're not capable of being honest!" Harry yelled back.

"I know you're angry. But the spell—it's too rigorous. It's too particular about what you believe, how you perceive. You need to let me give confession. Like a priest, can you do that?" Harry swallowed his next refusal, his next bitter reprisal; he had them ready, like soldiers he was sending off to die, to protect his heart. "We can do it now, this way, if you'd like."

"With the door between us?"

"With the door between us," Snape promised.

Harry's mind was working furiously. "Give me time."

"There's hardly—"

"The next meeting isn't until Sunday! Just give me time."

The rain beat against the door.

"Tomorrow, then," Snape said and Harry felt him leave.

Severus in his dream is just a voice that night, just a voice in a thick fog.

I put all my memories in a pensieve to forget you, and yet my dreams showed me your full form.

Forest green.

It's been etched inside me somewhere. Behind the eyes. I miss your forehead. I miss the rightness of you. What did Shakespeare say?

Bristling thistle and…snow?

Hell is empty and the devils are here.

A lake of ice.

That's how it feels, living in a world with me here and you there, and him with you and me without you.

There's someone standing across the lake.

But it's better this way.

He struggles to speak, like his voice is bubbling through water. Why?

Because I'm unclean.

He steps out onto the lake and the ice breaks.

His face was wet when he woke. He couldn't move for some time, flat on his back, the fog from the dream still present, a leaden weight. When he could move, it was to blink, and then to press his palms into his eyes. He was at once grateful to be alone in bed and scared to be alone with his own thoughts.

Had Severus really been speaking to him? It felt real, he felt his love as he'd felt it before, a sensual and old thing, a possessive assurance, a heavy hand on the small of his back.

Saturday morning, Harry was set to play quidditch with Ron. But Ron was late.

Harry sat in the locker room, waiting for him. When he began to worry, Ron appeared next to him, without a bag or his kit.

"You scared me."

"Something came up." Ron scanned the locker room but no one was there—all the scrimedges of the morning had begun already. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded sheet of parchment. "Dawlish got me the list."

"What list?"

"Everyone with access to the Unspeakable library." He unfolded it and slapped it flat on the bench Harry was seated on.

"I marked the obvious ones we can rule out," Ron said, pointing to it. "Head Unspeakables, people who were off on assignment the whole year. Dawlish thinks it has to be someone on here, though. Look at the last name."

Harry took the list in his hands. It read:

Livia Blishwick

Theron Flint

Orpheus Latchkey

Edric Moorecroft

Hugh Rosier

Vera Trigg

Aelfric Voss

Talbott Winger

Harry's mind blanked for a moment, his thoughts scrambling to absorb what he was looking at. "What?" He looked at Ron. "Is Dawlish sure that's right?" He handed the paper back to Ron, his hand shaking. "Talbott's not even an Unspeakable. He spends half his time these days guarding the players for Puddlemere United. It doesn't make any sense."

Why was Talbott on the list?

"Dawlish is sure—he's had the list for a while. But he's keeping his cards close to the chest. He's only shown it to me this morning. I think he—he would have told me earlier if he'd known you were dating, but you know Dawlish, completely clueless about that sort of thing."

Harry could barely hear Ron. He was still trying to understand.

Perhaps it made sense—Aurors had access to a lot of places, especially high-clearance archives if their cases required it. But still. This case? This place? Talbott not only wasn't an Unspeakable, he wasn't even a detective. Why would he need access to a research library?

"Do you think it's suspicious?"

Ron raised his eyebrows. "I mean, it is strange, like you said. What does a bodyguard need with a library? That and…he was at Robin Hood."

"But he passed questioning under Veritaserum." I slept with him, he didn't say. They'd shared hotel rooms, they'd swapped stories and saliva.

Ron shrugged. "Right, but—"

He was on the list.