Archive of Our Own ^beta

You see him again on a bright autumn day.

You have just stepped out of Pippin's carrying a large case of jars filled with bat spleens, eel eyes, and slugs, when he happens to walk by and you happen to look at him.

To call it unexpected would be an understatement.

It's like when you climb up the cellar stairs in the dark, tired after a long day of brewing, and you think there is one more step at the top but there isn't, and for a fraction of a second, before your foot touches the ground, you lose your balance slightly, your breath catches in your throat, you fear you might fall.

It's like that. A turn of the head, a meeting of eyes. So simple. And yet the whole world shifts beneath you.

You see his face and it all comes rushing back. But was it ever really gone? Have you not been ruminating it the whole time, since that last embrace, since that goodbye softly breathed into your neck? Has it not been with you every moment since? Do you not still recall precisely the shade of his eyes in the morning light, the curve of his spine under your fingers, the taste of his mouth?

Does it not still haunt you like a ghost?

You stand frozen on the threshold, completely blocking the way into the shop, and you stare at him. You want to say something clever. Or something cruel and scathing, preferably, because words have always been your best weapon, your strongest defence. Your hiding place. But the words don't come. They stay knotted into your throat, making it difficult to breathe.

At first sight, he looks roughly the same as he did that day, when he stepped into the Floo and vanished from your life, leaving a hole there that you haven't been able to fill. He looks plucked straight out of your memories and deposited there on the street, and the sight is so familiar it tugs at that old part of you that you thought you'd fully buried, the one that only he has ever managed to tame, the one that lashed out at everyone else but so easily unfurled at his touch. He is such a familiar sight, and yet it is like seeing an apparition, something saintly. A deity in the middle of Hogsmeade.

No, he hasn't changed much at all, but whether this is a blessing or a curse you cannot quite determine. There it is still, the same mouth you used to kiss, prone to smiling and teasing. How you loved it open and gasping and doing every filthy thing you dared demand of it. His hair, although dark and messy as ever, is slightly longer now, curling over his ears and forehead. How would it feel, clutched into your fist as you thrust into him? The most noticeable difference is that he doesn't wear his glasses anymore, and though you'd so often ridiculed them, you feel a pang of grief at their absence. But his eyes are the same eyes that once looked at you so fondly that each stare felt like a caress.

He is older, of course, but he is overall as he has always been. Devastatingly beautiful.

The years have not been as kind to you, of that you are aware. You sleep very little and you often forget to eat; your bed is cold and unappealing and every bite tastes the same. You've never been good at taking care of yourself. It takes its toll on you, loneliness. You see it every morning when you look in the mirror.

You know the curve of his smile before it takes shape, and the sound of his voice before he speaks your name.

"Severus."

It has never failed to amaze and puzzle you how he manages to make this word, its three familiar syllables, such a distinct and unique sound. No one, not even your own mother, not even his, has ever spoken your name this way. For most of your life, it has been a name to be cursed, to be hissed in anger and disgust, to be twisted and ridiculed. In his mouth, it is revered, cherished. It is a promise. Even now. And hearing it again after years of silence is like being stabbed.

"Potter," you drawl in response, with a distant coldness that you do not feel.

You regret it even as it passes your lips, and you watch in dread as the smile fades from his features, as the hurt flashes so clearly behind his eyes. Barely a moment later, however, his face softens again, and if at first you think his expression is one of pity, you soon realise it is one of understanding.

"It was good to see you," he says with a sincerity that is disarming, before turning to leave.

"Wait!" you call out at once, not quite managing to keep the urgency from your voice.

He turns back and smiles at you as if he's already forgiven you the unjustified show of contempt. And you know that he has. He has forgiven you for so much more, for so much worse.

You obviously meant to say something. Why would you ask him to wait otherwise? But you cannot speak, you can only stare at him. The passers-by come and go around you, shuffling about on the street this way and that, oblivious to your predicament, your dilemma. They did not feel the earthquake, they did not see your life crumbling. They do not know that your polished countenance is truly in shambles, held together with worn pieces of twine.

A long moment passes. And then he steps out of the shadows of the surrounding shops and into the bright sunlight, walking up to you.

"You came back," you say bluntly, unable to look away.

"Yeah." He shuffles his feet a bit, slips his hands in his pockets in such a familiar way that a pang of deep fondness strikes through your chest. "Last week," he adds.

It seems impossible that he would have been back in the country for days and you wouldn't have sensed it somehow. How could his presence not send shockwaves all the way to Spinner's End? How could you not know, in your heart of hearts, the instant that he returned?

"I was not aware."

You didn't mean for your words to sound accusatory, but somehow they do. A light frown settles on his face but he doesn't look upset or reproachful, only mildly surprised.

"It was in the papers."

"I do not read those," you inform him sternly.

"Of course you don't."

He smiles at you then, with such profound affection. You don't remember the last time anyone has looked at you this way. It must have been him, five years ago now.

Has it been so long already? Where has the time gone?

"Are you heading home?" he asks suddenly, shifting on his feet again, as you know he does when nervous. "Did you… do you have time for lunch? Or just coffee? I was going to see Hermione, but she's not expecting me so it doesn't matter if I don't show…"

He trails off, waiting for an answer.

When you were a child, time would drag by endlessly. A single summer lasted for years, an afternoon for days. But then again, as a child, you were always waiting for something. You were a greedy creature, ceaselessly wanting, craving, daydreaming about better days to come. And in waiting, isn't the passing of time inevitably slowed? As you grew older, you stopped waiting, for what was there to look forward to? And now, you can only ever look at the past. You look longingly at all the things you've lost, you try to keep them close to you while time pries them away one by one. Now time slips through your fingers like sand.

And yet time, in this moment, seems to stand still. A warm gust of wind blows by, too hot for October, sending a flutter of small yellow leaves flying from a nearby tree. Gently, they fall around you like snow.

"I have time," you hear yourself say.

It isn't clear exactly how it happened. Five years later, the mystery of it, of how this insufferable boy could ever carve his way into you, remains unsolved. At the beginning, when he was still in your bed, when the feel of him curled up next to you was still a novelty, you chose not to question it, you chose to regard it as some peculiar incident bordering on the miraculous. But in time, after he took his leave and so much more, it has become the great enigma of your life. It is now a spectre that follows your every step, a bird of prey casting its looming shadow on your surroundings.

Perhaps it was simply the improbability of it all, of not only having survived the war but also, despite such heavy losses, of coming out victorious. Perhaps it was your disbelief in the face of this new world, the unrelenting impression that it may all be a fever dream or a coma so what did it matter what exactly occurred when there was always a chance it wasn't real. And yet there was this occasional sense of possibility, of hope, this sudden need to seize whatever good thing came at you because it was a wonder anything could come at all.

Perhaps it wasn't just because you had survived, but because he had too. If you'd suspected death might come for you, you had expected, with certainty, that it would for him. If waking after bleeding out on that dirty floor was unanticipated, seeing his face when opening your eyes was beyond shocking.

Perhaps it's because he was, astoundingly enough, the only one who could truly understand how this close brush with your demise had changed you. Some would disagree, for plenty had claimed, upon visiting you during recovery, that you were the same old bastard you'd always been. They called you what they'd always called you before: bitter, rude, cruel. But he saw the change in you. Or was it the change in him that gave you that impression?

Evidently, it did not happen all at once. You treated him at first with more contempt and ferocity than ever before. You wanted him to leave so you would never have to see him again. You never wanted to look into those eyes that had seen you, that knew you now in a way no one else ever had. But of course, he remained, relentless as ever. Until you stopped fighting him.

Perhaps what happened next was simply the only thing that could happen.

After all you'd gone through, was it truly so unexpected that you'd end up falling in love?

You don't really have time today. Not for lunch or for coffee. You've been working your way through a large order of potions for three days now and you're not yet halfway done. You only popped out for supplies with every intention of returning within the hour. But this meeting is so unexpected and unlikely that it's hard not to see it as serendipitous in some way, even if you've never believed in that sort of rubbish.

The thing is, you always go to Diagon. Always. If only by force of habit rather than true preference. But this morning, you happened to recall, just as you were about to apparate, that the last bat spleens you purchased from Mulpepper's hadn't been very fresh, and you changed your mind, heading for Hogsmeade instead. And it was this split-second decision, this truly unusual and out-of-character move, that led you right here. To him.

And so, in an even more unusual impulse, you decide to give in to this strange whim of fate and see where it leads. Perhaps you're getting soft as you age, soft or foolish, or perhaps it's just him that's taking all the defiance out of you. Either way, you somehow find yourself following him down the street to the newly opened bistro that has just replaced Puddifoot's despicable tea shop.

He opens the door for you, and you very nearly let out a snarky comment about unnecessary chivalry until you realise that the case of ingredients you're carrying would prevent you from opening the door yourself if you tried. You simply nod instead, and he smiles as if he knows.

You've never been to this establishment before, which is perfectly unsurprising since you never go out except to purchase absolute necessities. But the interior is a definite improvement on the old shop: no excessive pink frills and a decor that some would most likely qualify as cosy and welcoming. The small, cramped tables have been replaced by sturdy booths, and those horrible lace curtains removed completely. The windows are bare now, letting in the warm autumn light and drenching the dining room in a golden glow.

The server leads the two of you to a free booth near the window facing the street, and you set your case of jars carefully down on the seat next to you.

"This is nice," he remarks. "Has this been open long?"

His question is directed at you, and was no doubt meant to break the ice and get a conversation started, but the server, a pretty brunette with a too-wide smile, answers in your stead.

"About six months now!"

He smiles back. If he thought her interruption rude, he shows no sign of it. "It's lovely. A definite improvement."

You repress the urge to remark that this was your thought exactly, lest the server takes it as a compliment, but mostly lest he smiles at you in that way you know all too well. That complicit, secretive, tender way of his. If you were to see it again now, in this place, in this moment, you could not bear it. You would get angry, violent, unstoppable. You might just burn the sparkling new restaurant to the ground.

And him with it. For having returned. For having left.

You feel it already, that sort of warm heaviness that preludes rage, like the burning of embers in your chest cavity. The remnants of an old fire you thought fully extinguished.

The server's hands tremble as she presents you with menus, and she looks at him with the short, erratic glances of someone who so desperately wants to stare but doesn't want to be obvious about it. She's recognised him, of that you're certain. If not from this behaviour then from the sudden blush that adorns her cheeks and from the way she stutters as she announces that she'll return shortly to take your orders. And from the way she scurries off in a hurry, surely to inform the rest of the staff that a celebrity has just walked in.

Her antics put you in an even fouler mood. You've always despised the way people so openly gawk at him like he's a bloody circus animal. Or worse yet, how they think they know him and are under the illusion that they deserve even a small fragment, a morsel, of his attention. As if he still owes them. As if saving all their wretched lives wasn't enough.

He is, as expected, thoroughly unbothered by it. Or perhaps he has always been completely oblivious to it, you've never been certain. He is already busy looking through the menu with great interest, and you force yourself to open your own, if only to have something to do with your hands other than leave them folded tightly on your lap. You should probably eat, but you don't think anything solid could possibly make its way through the tightness in your throat.

Why did you agree to this? What in the world possessed you to agree to this? You must be more sleep-deprived than you originally thought, or more lonely. You must be close to madness.

You glance around. It is too late for breakfast and still too early for lunch, and the only other patrons are a group of middle-aged witches still sipping their morning coffee a few tables away. They gossip and giggle, though not loudly enough to distract from the tense silence that has settled between you.

It's too much. It's nerve-wracking. You should say something, if only to break the ice, but what?

It seems ludicrous that there even would be any ice to break when you'd previously achieved such a level of intimacy with him as you'd never thought possible. But five years was enough, evidently, for a thick layer to form between you. And the knowledge that you are entirely to blame for this does not elude you.

Perhaps you should go straight to the point then. Why have you returned? No. It is none of your business why he has returned or for how long. In fact, you don't even want to know. The less you know about him or his life, the better. You don't even care, really.

You steal a brief look at him over the menu. And then another. Perhaps you are just as pathetic as that bloody server. You've half a mind to put the thing down and just stare at him openly, to take in every detail of him, to drink it all with your eyes. You used to stare at him endlessly while he slept, to trace his every feature over and over and over again. As if some part of you already knew that it wouldn't last, that you should look your fill before it was all gone.

It is truly astounding how little he has changed. It strikes you with every glance. Perhaps this would be easier if he looked different, if time had transformed his face the same way you know it has your own. The only thing foreign about him now is how he avoids your gaze, pretends he doesn't feel it. That and the jumper he's wearing, which you've been trying not to fixate on. Because it fits him too well, brings out his eyes too much, looks too fashionable and too expensive. As if someone else picked it for him…

You quickly chase the thought from your mind and flip through the menu moodily, your eyes fleeting over the names of dishes without really seeing them, but as you glance at the desserts, your useless brain decides to register that they have treacle tart.

You could comment on that to break the silence, but all such a remark would reveal is that you haven't forgotten that it's his favourite and that you still care enough to mention it. And so you will not speak of it. It's quite pathetic, because surely he knows that you remember that, and so much more, but it is too easy, too expected a statement. He will see right through you and find in it confirmation that you have been unable to come up with anything better to say. All any talk of treacle tart would do is betray your discomfort.

"Oh, they've got treacle tart," he says suddenly, and you don't know if you want to scoff or to smile.

Or to scream.

You have to clear your throat much more thoroughly than you'd expected before speaking. It feels raw, as though it were just ravaged by fire.

"You previously mentioned that you were here to see Granger. Has she relocated?"

He glances at you briefly, a flash of bright smile, as is expected whenever either of his precious friends is mentioned, before turning his attention back to the menu.

"Yeah. She and Ron just got a house here. It's on the outskirts, right near the lake. Needs a lot of work, but it's quite lovely."

The memory hits you like a slap in the face.

You'd considered it once, more seriously and extensively than you probably should have. On a quiet, rainy morning, as you lay in bed, your body intertwined with his, both unable to find sleep again and yet unwilling to get up, you'd discussed it, no matter how unlikely, how impossible it seemed. He had this habit of rambling on about silly, sentimental things, and most often you'd shut him up by putting his delectable mouth to better use. But for some reason, on that day, you decided to indulge him. On that day, in hushed voices, amidst lazy caresses and soft sighs and lips sliding teasingly over skin, you'd talked about finding a house and living there together. You'd imagined it all, in excessively foolish detail: the little stone steps leading to the front door, so quickly overgrown with weeds; the old shutters that groaned on windy days; the quiet, sun-filled garden out back.

Five years ago, in a strange, timeless moment, you'd unwittingly created a whole life for yourselves. Does he remember it still? Is that why he's avoiding your gaze now?

"She orders from me," you tell him shortly, through the forest fire still raging in your windpipe. "Granger."

He puts the menu aside and sets his attention fully on you. And you hope that the way you tense up at this remains unnoticeable.

"She's mentioned that. Fertility potions, yeah? They've been trying for a kid. You know how she is, she wants to do everything right," he finishes fondly.

In a desperate attempt to hide your discomfort under the weight of his gaze, you pretend to find the menu suddenly very interesting. This is absolute torture, and the ridiculous chit-chat only makes it worse. If you had only slightly less self-control, you might very well start fidgeting like a bloody First Year.

A moment passes in tense silence again. And then, to make matters even worse, he says, in a lower, much softer voice, "I was glad when I heard you'd quit teaching."

"You were glad," you say at once, before you can stop yourself. It comes in a derisive drawl, jeering, demeaning. But it isn't nearly as venomous, as hurtful a retort as you would have liked, because you cannot even lift your gaze to see his reaction. You cannot even look him in the eye as you mock him.

His reply comes without delay.

"Of course I was. I know you'd wanted to stop for a while." His voice is softer still, uninjured, and you recognise in it a clear sign that he will not play your game.

If anything, his failure to rise to your taunts infuriates you even further, although you're not quite sure why you want to rile him up so badly. Perhaps anger would be more tolerable than this… whatever it is you see on his face, whatever it is you feel emanating from him in droves. You'd rather he hisses at you, sneers at you. You'd rather see his cheeks redden in anger, his eyes shoot daggers across the table. But this quiet understanding, this sudden maturity of his disgusts you. Why is he so good-natured and meek and… dull? When did he lose this spark that could set you ablaze so effortlessly?

And yet, it is nonsensical to expect him to treat you with resentment. He wouldn't have asked you out for lunch for the sole purpose of insulting you. He is not petty like you are. He was never one for unwarranted scorn. And you parted on good terms after all, didn't you? When he walked out of your life five years ago, he believed you were fine with it, he believed there was no harm done. Because you let him believe it. Because you failed to inform him that what he was really leaving behind wasn't a man but a pile of ruins.

This is it then. After spending five years hating yourself, it's almost a relief to turn this hatred on someone else.

Thank Merlin the server chooses this precise moment to return.

He proceeds to order a full meal, occasionally asking the server's opinion on this item or that, and the ease and rapidity with which he manages to thoroughly charm the poor girl is astounding. You would roll your eyes if you could allow your gaze to leave his beautiful face even for an instant, if you could turn away from the way the sunlight hits his left cheekbone, makes his eyes glow. The girl laughs and blushes at whatever he says and you want to scoff but you can't because your breath is all gone. The worst is he doesn't even mean to do this, that's just how he is. You used to consider this with bitterness but also a small hint of affection. All you can feel now is the bitterness.

When the server turns to you at last, regretfully, you inform her that you'll have a single cup of tea and gruffly refuse the included biscuits. She nods and leaves, taking her wide smile and her swinging ponytail with her.

You expect him to berate you for not eating, but when he doesn't, you realise you were hoping he would, so you would have an excuse to snap at him.

"Are you still at Spinner's End?" he asks.

You finally find it in yourself to scoff, and you throw him your best unimpressed glare while you're at it. "Where else would I be?"

He is still looking at you like he did before, with this calm disposition that infuriates you so. But you notice he is playing with a corner of his napkin almost nervously.

"I don't know," he says with a shrug. "You often talked about selling it, so I thought maybe you'd—"

"I am still there."

He falls silent, nods. You watch him fiddle with the napkin some more, then flatten it with his palm, then grab one of the glasses from the table, which you hadn't noticed were now filled with water, and take a series of large sips from it. It refills as soon as he puts it down.

"It's just that I sent you some letters. And I never got a reply. So I thought maybe you'd moved. But then again, the owls would have found you anyway. So they must have gotten lost."

"They must have," you drawl, avoiding his eyes with what you hope looks like disinterest rather than guilt.

"I guess it was stupid of me to think they could make it all the way to England," he adds with a weak laugh.

"Quite."

He grabs the water again, takes more large sips, and you allow yourself to stare at the movements of his throat for just an instant before turning your gaze to the sun-drenched street outside.

"I have a flat in London," he informs you. "But it's just temporary. Until I find something better."

"You plan on staying then?"

You can't stop yourself from asking, but you do your best to render the words as flat and detached as possible. At least you manage to refrain from asking if he's here alone. You don't think you could bear the answer.

"Yeah. I got offered a job here. It's some new Ministry project though, I can't really talk about it."

"Good for you."

There is a heavy pause, indicative enough that he has caught the condescending tone in your voice. You wait, with bated breath, certain now that he will snap at you.

"Thanks," he says simply before taking another sip of his water.

You drink some of your own, but it doesn't soothe your throat. It doesn't manage to extinguish the embers; if anything, it only seems to stoke the fire.

"I am certain your horde of worshippers will be exhilarated to have you back," you remark afterwards.

You don't hold back on the scorn this time, and he visibly tenses up. A moment passes, during which you take a certain amount of pleasure in knowing he might be struggling to find a good retort.

"Severus, don't," he says at last, softly.

"Don't what? State the obvious?"

To prove your point, you jerk your head towards the counter, where the server, along with a few other members of staff now, is huddled and gossiping, throwing occasional glances at your table. But he ignores them completely, his gaze set on you, reproachful now.

"Don't be like that."

It's the way he says it, with such an undertone of pity, that does it.

"I shall be how I very well please!" you reply dryly.

"Yeah, you always are, aren't you?" he mutters under his breath.

You detect in his voice the first sign of irritation, and it fuels the fire even more. You're just about to add something nasty when suddenly, another server, not the one who took your orders, approaches the table. She's grinning nervously and carrying a small pad of paper and a Muggle pen that she holds out to him.

"Would you please—" she begins.

He shakes his head before she can continue. "No, I'm sorry, later," he says briefly, his words clipped and uncomfortable.

The girl walks away in what you imagine must be a good amount of embarrassment, but you can't tell, because you barely spare her a glance. You are much too taken with the sudden flush of his cheeks.

"I see nothing has changed," you snarl in a low voice. "Can't even walk into a bloody café without the staff hosting an autograph session."

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't think it would be like that. No one ever bothered me in Norway, so I guess I forgot."

"You forgot. Frankly, I'm surprised you weren't tailed all the way here by half the reporters in Britain. I imagine this lovely meeting would make delightful fodder for the Prophet's gossip page."

"We can go somewhere else," he nearly snaps.

"Oh no, no. This is charming. Just like the old days."

You've often taken pride in this, your effortless ability to retain the upper hand in any conversation by thoroughly intimidating your interlocutor. It has saved your life so many times that to this day it still comes easily. Whenever discomfort creeps up on you, whenever you feel at a disadvantage, you cannot stop the venom that spills forth within your words. But this time, the way you say that last bit, the evident bitterness in your tone, the obvious hint of disgust, shocks even you.

Just like the old days.

You could have sworn at him, you could have spat on the table and it would have been all the same.

Just like the old days.

As if nothing you had before meant anything to you at all. As if that year of perfect bliss, of absolute felicity, was really one of torment and torture.

He avoids your gaze at once. And he lets out a shaky sigh, thin and trembling. You suddenly wonder if perhaps his throat is as charred as your own.

"Sev," he begins, then stops.

His voice is more levelled, more reasonable than you deserve. But he's always made excuses for you, always endured your temper. Though it has been a very long time since it has been directed at him.

"I didn't ask you here to pick a fight," he adds after a time.

His words are again unnecessarily mild, though it might be because he is wounded deeply rather than out of consideration for you.

"Why did you ask me here then?" you demand. "What were you expecting?"

"Not this," he says shakily. "I was happy to see you. And I thought you'd be happy to see me too."

Your first thought is that you were, and you mean to say it. But then you realise that you were not. You were not happy to see him. Or perhaps you were, but you were so thoroughly unprepared that seeing him was like being unexpectedly set on fire. Or rather, like someone had doused you in gasoline when you were already burning. So you say nothing.

His eyes meet yours very briefly, and he must see the truth because an instant later, he is standing.

"My mistake," he mutters.

He fumbles through his pockets nervously and takes out a handful of coins that he leaves on the table before heading for the door, all without sparing you one last glance. You watch his retreating silhouette through the window until it disappears around the corner.

You sit there for a time afterwards, filled with such a myriad of emotions you cannot even begin to tell them apart. There is shame, most of all, at having behaved so horribly, at having treated him this way. And anger, directed at yourself but also at him, for thinking that smiling at you across the street and inviting you to lunch would be enough. For thinking it would fix anything. For not even knowing that something is broken. Or worse, for knowing but choosing to ignore it.

You try to calm the furious pounding of your heart by watching the passersby as they go about their lives and taking deep breaths, lest you get the sudden urge to send jar after jar of ingredients crashing to the floor. When the server returns, you grumble an apology and cancel the order before taking your leave as well.

The world outside is warm and bright and filled with the pure scents of autumn. It is more beautiful than it has any right to be in this moment. And as you walk away from the bustle of the main road towards a quiet apparition spot, all you can do is wonder how so little time, barely a year of him, could ruin you in such a way.

In a single year, he had managed to erode his way into you. Like a rush of fresh water ruthlessly carving its path through solid rock. In so little time, he had managed to reach something deep into your core.

But now the years have turned that place into a gaping hole, empty and dry and crumbling.

Time.

Does it really heal all wounds, as they say? Or does it only make them fester?

You knew it would end, because how could it not? In what universe would someone like you ever deserve to keep him? Life had never been fair to you before, and it made perfect sense that it would give you this, let you hold it, cherish it, believe in it, and then snatch it away. You'd been expecting it, in fact. To such an extent that when it finally came, the first thing you felt was not pain or denial or sadness. It was relief. Because now that the end had come, you could stop dreading it every moment.

An opportunity is what he called it when he made the announcement one morning over breakfast. That's what everyone called it. You'd even used the word yourself a few times, because that's what it truly was. An opportunity. The chance of a lifetime.

Some prestigious curse-breaking guild in Norway had expressed interest in taking him in as an apprentice. They were renowned for being extremely selective, for inviting only the best and most promising young witches and wizards into their midst. And they wanted him.

Only a year or so earlier, it would have been shocking news, but you were not shocked that morning. You were proud. Devastated at the prospect of losing him, yes, but so proud of the young man he had become. Once freed from the constant threat of the Dark Lord, he had allowed himself to turn away from battle and bloodshed, to defy expectations and, instead of training with the Aurors, had found a passion for obscure forms of magic. Surprisingly for some, and less so for others, he excelled at magical theory and spell-crafting. How beautifully his mind had blossomed and his powers grown. How truly deserving he was of this offer.

Who were you to tell him to stay? How could you even hope he would question this opportunity for the likes of you?

And so you swallowed your pain and your selfishness and you supported his decision, you encouraged it. You helped him pack, you wished him luck, you even kissed him goodbye. And you let him go.

At first you missed only the little things, the more temporary, fleeting ones. The weight of his head in the crook of your neck and shoulder. The tilt of his mouth into a discreet but fond smile whenever you were being unnecessarily grumpy. This lone bark of laughter, half shock, half delight, bright and carefree, which always preluded a prolonged fit of mirth. That one curl of hair that seemed to have a mind of its own and would always stick out from the same spot near his right temple. The memory of those things never failed to ignite a spark of loss, but they were bearable things, and for a time you thought you could survive this separation, if not seamlessly then somewhat easily. But as the days, the weeks, the months passed, you began to miss the whole of him. The weight of his magic in the air, heady like an aroma, so that you could feel his presence without even catching a glimpse of him. The warmth of his body and the way he would inevitably wrap it around yours in sleep. You even began to miss, profoundly and desperately, the things about him that used to annoy and infuriate you. Slowly but surely, the space he had previously occupied became a giant sinkhole in the centre of your chest, the centre of your life.

Approximately six months in, you realised the true extent of your loss.

He had left behind nothing but shambles. Ruins. And a pain, striking at first but then numb and torturous, like that of a phantom limb.

Ever since that day, you've lived two lives. The real one, the dreary and lonely one, from which you can never fully escape. And another, the parallel one which exists only in your head. The one in which you find refuge when you can bear the pain no longer. The one in which your bed is never cold, your heart never heavy. The one in which you were brave enough, or selfish enough, to beg him not to leave.

The one in which he loved you enough to stay.

You visit your mother on Sundays.

You leave early in the morning, grabbing a book for the train journey that takes hours and eats up half of your only day off. You could apparate there and back, and yet you never do. Somehow it would make it too easy, strip the visit of its meaning, make it just another of your regular menial tasks, like a trip to the grocer's or the apothecary. Taking the train has made it symbolic, turned it into a sort of pilgrimage.

You haven't missed a day in over three years, but this morning you want nothing more than to stay in bed. You've had absolutely no sleep, and though you are more than familiar with these fits of insomnia by now, the shock of having him walk back into your life so unexpectedly has added an uneasiness to your perpetual state of exhaustion. Something akin to nausea, but centred lower, closer to your heart, as if you were just about to retch out your soul. You want to hide from the world, to never set foot outside your door again for fear of encountering him once more, no matter how unlikely he is to be found on the train to Bakewell at seven in the morning on a weekend. And yet, how you long for just another glimpse of his smile or his shining eyes.

You scoff into your pillow at the thought. With the way you left things off, there is little chance that he would be smiling if you were to see him today.

My mistake, you hear his trembling voice say, over and over again. Each time, the shame and guilt grips you even tighter.

Eventually, you drag yourself out of bed and get ready for your weekly visit. It's no use staying home if you're going to spend an entire day marinating in self-pity and dwelling on yesterday's events. It's entirely your fault if things turned out the way they did, and you should live with that.

It's nearly three hours to the care home, and you arrive to find your mother in her usual spot by the window, staring at some ducks swimming lazily in the little pond out back.

This place is the reason you've chosen to stay in Spinner's End, the reason you only allow yourself one day off a week, the reason why you work from the crack of dawn until late into the night. You couldn't afford to keep her here if you moved out or if you worked just a little less. This place is the reason your cupboards are never full and you have to settle for the cheap tea that tastes like bitterness. But it's all worth it if it means that you can give her the very best. It eases your mind to know that she can watch trees and birds instead of concrete walls, that she can breathe fresh air and listen to the wind instead of sirens or distressed cries echoing in empty hallways.

You kiss her on the cheek and sit in the armchair next to her, but she only spares you a disinterested glance before turning her attention back to the pond.

"Hello, mum," you say after a moment.

As expected, your greeting has no effect on her, but you take her hand nonetheless, and squeeze it gently. It looks so small in your grasp, feels warm and limp like a helpless bird fallen from its nest. Still she doesn't react, her dark eyes staring widely at the world outside with a sort of childlike innocence.

You could miss a visit and she would be none the wiser. You could never visit again and she would never know. She hasn't recognised you in months now.

You don't blame her for that. You wouldn't want to remember her life either.

"He's back, mum," you tell her. "Harry's back."

When you look up from the place where your hands are joined, you find her staring at you. There is a hint of curiosity in her eyes, but no recognition.

"I know you don't remember him, but you liked him… I liked him too," you add softly. "I still do…"

You stare back into her eyes, pitch black just like your own, but they hold none of the worry or pain that she bore for so long. She doesn't understand your troubles, not only because your words hold no meaning to her, but because she is so far now from it all. She is free.

Life must be so peaceful in her world of oblivion, where time means nothing and there is no one to miss or long for. And though you've so often envied her this peace of mind, suddenly you are filled with the fear that you might live out your last days the same way, that you might forget it all, not only the pain and the suffering, but also those things that keep you going now, the memories that you hold onto so preciously, that you already fight so hard to preserve.

"I don't know what to do," you mutter in something like a plea.

Without saying a word, she frees her hand from your grasp, lifts it, and gently pats your cheek before returning to her contemplation of the pond.

You don't say anything more. You sit with her in silence for an hour or two, and then take your leave.

When you return home, later in the afternoon, everything is the same and yet different. You feel that something has shifted in your absence, although you cannot quite pinpoint what or how. The house is exactly as you've left it, and the wards have detected no intruder, but somehow, something has happened. You feel it in your innards.

It's as you walk into the kitchen that you notice it. The tiny red light is blinking on the answering machine, next to the phone that you never use.

You press the button, and at once his voice fills the small kitchen like an echo of the past.

"Hi, Severus…"

A pause, marked by a deep, shaky breath that makes your knees tremble.

"I wasn't sure you had the same number, but you said you hadn't moved, so I thought I'd try… and then I heard the message and… well…"

Another pause. Another breath, steadier this time.

"Look, I wanted to say… I'm sorry about yesterday. I… I keep trying to… to think back on everything I've said, and figure out if I did something to upset you. And I… I can't come up with anything, but I still want to say I'm sorry… for whatever it is. I think I just… maybe caught you at a bad time and I'm sorry for that too. I… I should have reached out first when I returned, to let you know… I just… Maybe going for lunch was a bad idea… Obviously it was…"

A light chuckle then, half embarrassed, half pained.

"But I was… I was genuinely, genuinely happy to see you," he adds softly, fondly, in this tone you are so familiar with, the one spoken into your ear so many times, the one breathed into your skin.

At that moment there is a spark in your chest, a tremor in the pile of embers at your core, in the small shard of burning hope, half buried in ashes. There is a spark in the old fire nearly extinguished, and you realise it wouldn't take much at all, just a light breath of wind, for it to be ablaze once more.

"Anyways I… I just wanted to say that. And to say I'm sorry. Again. You don't have to call me back, but if you want, I'll… I'll leave you my number just in case you… you ever want to talk."

There is a series of numbers, and a soft goodbye, and the click of the line, and the whirr of the machine, and then silence.

You stand there in the kitchen, alone in a flimsy ray of light, and you listen to his message again. And again.

And again.

You lied to him. When he mentioned sending you letters, not only did you pretend to know nothing about it, you also acted like you didn't even care. But the truth is that every single owl reached you safely, that you received all his letters, and that you read them dozens of times.

He wrote to you once a week for the first year. And then once every few weeks. And then every few months. And then, eventually, not at all.

It felt like a betrayal when the letters stopped coming, when enough time passed without one that you realised there would be no more. It hurt you deeply, but it was your own fault.

You replied to each and every letter, but you never sent them. At first, because you didn't want to hold him back, you wanted to give him his freedom. Or at least, that's what you told yourself. Then, you kept silent because it hurt too much, because all you wrote about was how much you missed him and how you wanted him back, and you couldn't bear to let him see this wounded side of you. And then, it was out of mercy, because your letters became tainted not only with loss but also with bitterness and reproach, and he did not deserve to suffer the consequences of your own cowardice.

His absence could be felt everywhere, not just in your life, but seemingly wizarding Britain as a whole. The papers that never missed the opportunity to report on his comings and goings went silent. Only once in a while did his name pop up miscellaneously, usually around the anniversary of the Dark Lord's defeat. Even the tabloids that so loved to fabricate the most outrageous rumours about him went from near-daily obsession to sparse mentions of him in short columns filled with even less-believable speculations than normal. He'd adopted a flock of abandoned dragons, which he kept on his lavish Norwegian country estate. In his curse-breaking ventures, he'd stumbled upon an ancient magical artefact and, upon touching it, had become so powerful that he'd taken to using a staff instead of a wand. He'd come into a strange creature inheritance, had suddenly grown wings, and taken three life mates. But without any pictures or sightings of him on which to build their fantasies, they eventually found other subjects to entertain themselves with. Still, you told him about some of those theories in your unsent letters, knowing that he would find them incredibly funny, but the loneliness seemed heavier without the sounds of his laughter to break the silence.

When he mentioned the papers had reported his return, and you told him that you don't read those, you weren't lying, although it would have been more accurate to say that you don't read them anymore. Because for years, you pored over every issue you could find, seeking the mere mention of his name, even in one of those ridiculous allusions. It provided a brief source of comfort, even more so after the letters stopped. You needed reassurance that he still existed somewhere, that you hadn't imagined him. That there was still a cause for this constant pain you lived with. So you read the papers avidly. Until that one issue of The Daily Prophet on 20, December 2002.

In a long article that took up the bulk of the issue, a foreign correspondent covered the annual European Magical Union gala held in Copenhagen. A series of photographs showed the numerous celebrities attending the event, and it was amongst these that you found his beautiful face smiling at you for the first time in nearly four years. Your heart froze in your chest. Not only because of how unexpected it was to find him there, as he had always despised these events or any other form of limelight, but also because the tall, blond, extremely good-looking man by his side had an arm wrapped around his waist. Fredrik Voll, the description named him, Keeper and Captain of the Norwegian National Quidditch team.

You ripped the paper to shreds, set it on fire, and never looked at another after that.

This fit of anger was momentarily satisfying though futile, for the memory of that picture continues to haunt you to this day. Even with his absence, even with the distance and the silence, you'd still considered him yours. You were the first to touch him intimately, to take him to bed, to hold his naked body, to hear him moan, to see him come. You'd shown him all the ways one can feel pleasure, the tender ways as well as the filthy ones. He was yours so thoroughly that even when he left, you never considered that he could let another touch him the way you had. That he could belong to another.

You spent endless nights wide awake, torturing yourself with images of this man fucking him. Sometimes, out of spite, you refused to let him feel any pleasure with Voll, but the thought of him being used was so unbearable that you'd always end up allowing him to consent enthusiastically, as he always had with you. And eventually, without fail, you'd end up replacing Voll in these fantasies, and you'd stroke yourself desperately as you remembered the perfect feel of his body cradled in your arms, the beautiful way he'd moan as he met your every thrust, the taste of his throat as you mouthed avidly at it. And you'd come with a broken cry, his name upon your lips.

It's harder to think of him now, after that wretched article. You struggle to hold onto the good memories, to prevent them from being tainted, overtaken with imaginings of him with others.

When you think of him, you think of summer. Of sunlight and soft wind. Of the colour green, flecked with gold. Of lazy mornings, ruffled sheets, warm skin, and slurred whispers of "just a bit longer" that turn into lazy kisses on your scarred neck.

You think of breakfast. Of his bright smile across the table. The smell of earl grey tea. The sound of the knife on thick bread crust. The rich, deep colour of raspberry jam.

When you think of him, you remember that life you once lived, however briefly. Life as it's meant to be lived. A quiet life, sweet and serene.

When you think of him, you understand now that's what love is.

You barely manage to get any work done the next day, still troubled by the unexpected message on your machine. But what troubles you most of all, what fills you with even more guilt and shame, is that he felt the need to apologise for the horrible way you treated him, that he still thinks so highly of you that he would rather believe he has wronged you in some way than that you were being unreasonably resentful. Because yes, this blame you are laying on him is unreasonable. How was he to know how strongly you felt for him when you never said a word, even when you were still together? How was he to know how thoroughly his absence destroyed you when you kept silent all these years?

To be fair, he has never voiced his feelings either, but they were there in the way he looked at you in the quiet moments, in the way he took your head in his hands and sometimes held it securely against his chest. They were there every time he kissed you, with such abandon and ardour. The words were there so often, right on his lips and yet unsaid. And you suspect, with near certainty, that the only reason he never explicitly told you he loved you was because he was afraid to be ridiculed. How many times have you scoffed in derision or shaken your head in annoyance at any remotely romantic gesture? How many times have you called him trite or sentimental?

How ironic is that now, given your own prolonged state of yearning?

He never told you and yet you never doubted his feelings. You were neither handsome nor desirable. Why would he ever grace your bed, your life, for an entire year if he didn't love you? Granted, the sex was incredible, but is that reason enough to stay if there are no feelings? Perhaps it is, for a certain type of people. But not for him. You know that with certainty. He could have had anyone in the world if he'd wanted. He could have had twenty, fifty men the likes of Fredrik Voll, and yet it was your lips he kissed, it was your back he dug his fingernails into, it was your cock he worshipped.

You spend the entire day debating whether or not you should call him back. Part of you wants to erase the message, forget the number already ingrained in your mind, cross his name from your life, and try to move on. You simply don't know if you can take any more of this pain. But another part of you is so desperate just to hear his voice again that every other minute, you must restrain yourself from dashing up the stairs and calling him right away.

You've wasted so much time lost in your thoughts that it's later than usual when you finish work. The first thing you do after you emerge into the dark kitchen is put the kettle on. You haven't eaten all day, but you suspect the pain in your stomach is caused by something other than hunger, be it nerves or outright fear. You pour yourself a scalding cup of black tea, but you don't drink it. You stare at the phone instead, conflicted.

You force all thoughts from your mind, and you do it all of a sudden, before you can start overthinking again. You pick up the phone and dial his number.

"He… hello?" he answers after a few rings, his voice full of the heavy, slurred tones of sleep.

You are immediately mortified. "Did I wake you? I did not realise it was so late."

"No, no, no," he says in a rush, before letting out a small chuckle. "Well, yeah, you woke me, but it's okay. I fell asleep on the sofa, so it's good you called or I would have spent the night here."

Another quiet laugh. It wraps around your heart like a warm blanket.

You can almost see his bleary eyes and tousled hair. That lovely, lazy smile he gave you upon waking, before burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"I can call back tomorrow," you insist.

"No, it's okay." A pause, a deep breath. "It's good to hear your voice."

There is silence then, so heavy with meaning that you break it with the first thing that comes to mind.

"I was visiting my mother yesterday when you called."

You can hear the smile on his lips as he asks, "Oh, how is she doing?"

"She… has changed. She lives in a care home now. I visit every week."

"A care home?" He sounds confused. "But she's so young… What happened?"

You clear your throat painfully. "Early-onset Alzheimer's. It progressed quite rapidly."

"Sev…" he mutters. "I'm so sorry. Is there nothing they can do?"

"They tried, in the beginning, but nothing was successful. There remain some experimental treatments, which I've discussed with her healers, but the chances of improvement at such a late state of the disease are slim at best." You try to swallow the painful lump in your throat, unsuccessfully. "I have… decided to let her go. Even when she was still lucid, she never seemed very… keen on getting better."

"Sev…" he mutters again, sounding utterly heartbroken.

"Perhaps it is for the best," you croak out. "She seems happier now."

There follows another heavy silence, and you immediately want to smack yourself for bringing up such a devastating subject. In calling him, you wanted to clear the air, but you've only managed to fill it with sorrow. Still, it feels good to tell him about her, to share this tragedy with someone else who cared for her.

"How is your new job?" you ask after a time, trying your best to chase the sadness from your voice.

He sighs heavily and then groans. "It would be great if my boss wasn't a total dickhead. I swear, he's worse than Lockhart."

You scoff. "I doubt that is possible."

"I'm telling you, it's like the bloke thinks he's invented magic or something. He's always on my back, watching like a hawk, ordering me around as if I don't know how to do my job."

You can't stop yourself from smiling, though your heart tightens in your chest. Listening to him like this feels so familiar. It's as if no time has passed at all. You wish you could see his face, the angry flush of his cheeks, the fire in his eyes, the way he is perhaps running a hand through his hair in irritation.

"Should I head to the Ministry tomorrow and give him a good talking to?" you say sternly.

And there it is, just as you had hoped, that bright and lovely burst of laughter. It tears through you like a blade.

"Oh, Merlin! I wish you would!" he says once he's finished laughing.

Silence falls again, and there is so much you could say to try and fill it. But any of the things you are dying to ask, any of the things you should reveal or admit, would only ruin this moment.

"You seem exhausted," you remark after a time. "You should go to bed."

"Probably," he says softly. Then, "Will you call again?"

"I will." You mean it, and so you repeat it, as a promise. "I will."

A soft sound, like a sigh of relief. "Goodnight, Sev."

"Goodnight."

A moment passes, silence again, and then he hangs up.

Fuck.

Your heart is beating so fast it feels like it's trying to fight its way out of your ribcage.

On the counter next to you, your tea has already gone cold. You pour it down the drain and head upstairs to bed.

Sleep doesn't come for a long time. In the near darkness, you keep staring at the dresser, at the top drawer, tightly closed as always. You keep thinking of what's inside, the two bundles of letters, safely tucked away. The first are worn-out, deeply creased from repeated folding and unfolding, from countless readings. The second are pristine, still sealed. Forsaken.

You call again the following day, as promised, though much earlier this time, when there is no risk of waking him. One would have thought that yesterday's conversation, however brief, had been enough to clear the air, or at least soothe your nerves. And yet, once again you struggle to lift the receiver, plagued by the knowledge that all the things still unsaid cannot possibly be avoided again.

You should have gotten it over with yesterday. Upon calling, you'd wanted to tell him perhaps not everything, because you're not sure your voice could manage it, but you were at least going to try to explain your abhorrent behaviour at lunch. You'd been prepared for it, but had found such a profound sense of familiarity in speaking to him that you couldn't bring yourself to ruin the moment by bringing up the unpleasantness of your last encounter. And perhaps he preferred it that way as well.

He picks up on the second ring, and though you should probably lower your expectations, you allow yourself to hope he was waiting for your call.

"Hi," he says softly with an audible smile. Either he knew it was you calling, or he was expecting someone else.

"I do hope you weren't sleeping this time."

A short laugh. He doesn't sound taken aback or disappointed to hear your voice, which you consider a small victory.

"Of course not. I've just finished the washing up from dinner."

The smile slips from your lips. He used to cook for you many times a week. It's so much better to cook for two, he'd say. Is he still cooking for two? Does he live alone in his flat in London or is someone there with him? Is it Voll? Or did he leave the man behind in Norway, broken-hearted, to suffer the same fate as you? There is a small amount of satisfaction to be had at the thought.

"How was your day?" he asks when you keep silent.

You manage a blunt reply. "Ordinary. Busy."

"You must be getting a lot of orders," he remarks, trying to diffuse the tension that he can surely sense, even over the phone.

You try to soften your tone a little. "A fair amount, yes. Sometimes more than I feel I can manage by myself. But I manage somehow."

"I'm sure you do." Such deep fondness in his voice. "Maybe you could get someone to help you out. Like an assistant or some sort of apprentice," he suggests.

You scoff. "Can you truly picture me with an apprentice?"

A smile, again. "No, not really."

You decide that's more than enough about you. "How was work?" you ask.

"Better. I'm trying a new strategy," he announces proudly. "Every time my boss acts a prick, I picture you walking in and ripping him a new one. It's been very helpful. I'd even say therapeutic."

You smirk. "Glad to be of service."

"I might not need it for long though. There should be an opening at Gringotts soon. Did you hear what happened?"

You'd overheard it discussed at the apothecary last week. "I heard of an accident. Some tunnels caved in?"

"Yeah, a section of the original part, deep underground, and some vaults were uncovered in the collapse. About fifteen or so, completely unrecorded! They're thousands of years old!" he announces, and the excitement in his voice makes you smile. "No one knows who they belonged to or what's in there or how to get in. So the bank will be putting a team together to try and open them safely."

"It seems dangerous."

"But exciting! Bill said he'll put in a good word for me."

You smile again. As if Bill Weasley's word would matter. "That's very kind of him, but I suspect they would hire you regardless."

A bark of laughter. "I don't know. The goblins haven't been very fond of me since I broke in at seventeen and took off with one of their dragons. Remember that?"

"All the more reason to hire you, you already have experience with their vaults."

"I hope you're right," he says more softly.

"I tend to be."

A brief moment of silence passes, not entirely uncomfortable.

"I've…" He hesitates. "I've really missed you, you know."

He's obviously expecting a reply, but you find your throat isn't allowing you to voice one.

"It's so weird, isn't it?" he adds nervously. "I… I don't know what it's like for you, but for me it's… it's been five years and… and somehow it feels like no time at all."

You were just thinking the same yesterday. Five years, and yet no time at all. Still this familiarity, even despite the pain. It would feel just like you were picking up right where you left off, if only you hadn't treated him so despicably before. If only you could just tell him… everything.

"I meant to apologise to you," you begin somewhat brusquely, before softening your tone yet again. "For the way I behaved the other day in Hogsmeade."

A brief silence, filled then by a trembling sigh.

"No, it's okay," he says breathlessly. "I probably shouldn't have asked you to lunch. I could see you were—"

"No," you interrupt. "I shouldn't have treated you that way. It was uncalled for."

"Oh. Umm… Thanks for saying that."

He sounds uncertain, or surprised. But surely he knows you mean it, for you are not the type of man to apologise often. And you realise now that this is nothing to be proud of.

"Still," he adds, "I'm sorry if I said anything to—"

"You did nothing wrong."

"Alright," he mutters.

There is silence again, and you can picture his discomfort so clearly. Perhaps he's biting his lip or scratching at the back of his neck. Or perhaps he's standing there, shifting on his feet, holding the phone tightly between his chin and shoulder so he can stick his hands deep into his pockets.

"I should probably go," he says after a time. "I told George I'd try to stop by the shop tonight."

"Very well."

He hesitates. "You can call me again. If you want."

"Noted."

Tell him. Just tell him.

"Alright then."

"I've missed you," you blurt out in a somewhat steady voice. "I've missed you as well. More than… more than you know."

A silence. The deepest one yet.

You should fill it with all the words you've never said. Saying you've missed him is such an understatement it does not even begin to describe the loss. You should tell him that for five years, he was in your every thought every moment of every day. You should tell him about all the letters you wrote, even after he'd stopped writing. You should tell him that the pain of losing him was like getting a limb chopped off. That even after all this time, you've never been able to properly function without this missing part of you. That you've only been living half a life.

"Oh," he says after a while, very softly, barely an exhale of breath.

You clear your throat, wondering if he can hear your heart's violent pounding through the phone. "Goodbye. Enjoy your evening."

"Bye, Sev."

This time, you hang up before he does. Just to make sure you don't make things worse.

The next twenty-four hours are spent in near agony as you try to devise some sort of strategy for your next call. Either you simply tell him everything, get it off your chest once and for all and live with the consequences. Either you simply behave as if you never said anything yesterday, or as if it didn't mean exactly what it meant. You are reheating soup for dinner, more as something to do rather than out of real desire to eat it, when the phone rings.

You stare at it for a moment. You'd been so preoccupied with the prospect of calling him that you hadn't considered the possibility that he might call you first. You are so surprised, in fact, that you let it ring much longer than necessary and you have to rush over to answer before he hangs up.

"Were you busy? Am I interrupting?"

His voice is different today. Gone is the light, teasing tone that can turn into laughter at any moment. He speaks softly still, but there is no fondness, not even friendliness. It isn't that he sounds angry or upset either, but he is serious in a way that immediately puts you on edge.

You know why he's calling. Deep down, you know.

"No, I was just making dinner." You try to keep your voice levelled even as a sense of dread rapidly overtakes you. With trembling hands, you turn the gas off under the pot of soup. "How was George Weasley?"

"What?"

"George Weasley. You mentioned yesterday that you would stop by his shop," you remind him.

"Oh, yeah. I didn't go…"

You brace yourself on the counter near the phone, and you wait.

"Look, Sev, I…" he begins and stops, taking a long, trembling breath.

You let out one of your own. You can tell he's trying not to cry.

"I was a mess after you called yesterday," he reveals. "I'm not trying to make you feel guilty or anything but… I just… I don't know what to think anymore. You apologised, and I'm grateful for that. It means a lot. But I'm just… so confused. You said you missed me, and it sounded like you meant it. But I don't think… I never felt like you did."

"I did," you croak out. "I meant it."

"Then why are you acting like nothing ever happened between us?" he blurts out accusingly. "Why are you so cold?"

A heavy, trembling breath again. He's crying now.

All of a sudden, all the guilt and shame and anger come bursting to the surface. You get the sudden urge to hurl the pot of soup to the floor. To rip the cupboards from the walls. You're feeling it all again. Five years of longing for him every bloody day of your wretched life. Of waking up in the middle of the night and missing him so much you want to crawl out of your skin. Of torturing yourself with thoughts of him with others.

"It was you who left!" you snarl in a raw, broken voice that you can barely recognise as yours. "It was you!"

"I don't recall you ever asking me to stay!" he cries.

Your rage is such that you find yourself shaking.

"How could I ever ask that?" you roar, and it echoes in the small kitchen like thunder. "You were nineteen! You were perfect! You had so much to live for! Who was I to ask that you stay and throw your life away? What sort of man would ask that?"

"A man who loved me!" he shouts angrily before his voice breaks into loud, heavy sobs the likes of which you've never heard from him before.

You are left utterly speechless, trembling with rage and yet with the desire to find him right this instant and hold him with all your might. And you would. You would if you knew where he lives. You'd apparate to his flat and just hold him until it passes.

"Even now you can't say it!" he accuses in between sobs. "I know you got the letters! I know you did! Ron and Hermione got them! All my friends did! It makes no sense that you didn't! So I know you got them, you fucking prick! And I know you never cared enough to reply! Just like you never cared enough to want me to stay! I waited! Every day I waited and you never wrote, you arsehole! And now you say that you missed me the whole time! Fuck you! You fucking bastard! Don't you go blaming me for leaving! Because I would have stayed! I would have stayed if you'd showed me, only once in your fucking life, that you fucking cared!"

He keeps crying for a time. Deep, uncontrollable sobs that prevent him from speaking. And you can only listen, equally speechless. You were angry earlier, but now you are utterly destroyed. You've never heard him so furious before. So furious and yet so broken.

"Don't you have anything to say?" he hisses when he finally finds his voice again.

You can only mutter. "No."

"Then fuck you!"

He slams the phone down so hard you can hear the impact before the line goes dead.

That night, you drink more than you've had in months, perhaps years. You drink and drink. You try to drink until you forget all about your miserable, useless life. But all it does is make you remember.

All sorts of things resurface. For the most part, wisps of memories all tangled up together and barely decipherable. But in the midst of it all, you happen to remember what your mother told you upon meeting him for the first time, years ago. He had come by for tea while she was visiting, and though you had planned for the two of them to meet, the two most important people in your life, somehow the event had left you restless, with something like just a touch of embarrassment that you couldn't explain. He had loved her, and she had loved him, of course. They had talked and laughed while you sat silent, barely lifting your gaze to look at them. You didn't know why you felt this way, but you were ashamed. Not of him, nor of her, but of yourself somehow. You'd barely said a word the whole time, hadn't even kissed him goodbye.

She'd walked up to you afterwards, as you were washing the cups and scrubbing the plates unnecessarily thoroughly, and she pulled you away from the sink, took your face in both her hands and looked at you so lovingly.

"Don't push him away, love," she'd said. "You deserve him."

How quick you were to forget her advice. Almost quicker than she was to forget you.

You keep drinking. Because of him. Because of her. Because of all the things you could have had and could never bring yourself to hold onto.

You drink. And then, around three in the morning, in a fit of madness and desperation, you send him the letters.

For the first time in years, you take a day off. Last was when you were so sick with the flu that you couldn't get out of bed. Today, you stay in for an entirely different reason, though you do have to rush to the loo a few times to purge yourself of the subpar whiskey you gorged on. Your only solace is that you physically feel so miserable that the emotional pain becomes secondary for a time.

You slowly recover and by mid-afternoon the headache has left you completely, thanks to various potions, and you feel good enough to have some tea. You sit at the kitchen table to drink it, throwing occasional glances at the phone.

You haven't heard back from him. Not that you were expecting to, not so soon anyway. But although you feel horrible for the way things went yesterday, you also feel a good amount of relief now. The truth is out at last.

You know he will read the letters. He is too sad, too hurt, but most of all, too curious not to read them. And so, even if he decides to burn them afterwards, you find comfort in the fact that he will know everything, the good and the bad.

It's difficult now to recall the exact content of those letters, for you sealed each one immediately after writing it, and you put them all away one by one, never reading them again. But everything you wrote is honest and true. Your devotion for him, your desire, your lust. Your pain and your hatred. You trust him to understand some of it, and perhaps be willing to forgive you the rest. And if he isn't… Well, at least all your cards are on the table now.

All you can do is wait.

The phone remains silent for the rest of the day.

It's early evening when he shows up on your doorstep, half drenched in rain, looking red-eyed and tired and astoundingly beautiful.

"You fucking arsehole," he greets you in a small voice that holds no anger and makes you want to weep.

He makes no move to come in, so you gently pull him inside the house and out of the rain and he lets you. He seems to have no fight left in him. And neither do you. You have no resistance to offer, will rebuke none of his insults or reproaches. If he wants to yell or curse at you, you'll take it. You refuse to hide from him anymore.

You stare at him, drink in the sight of him in a way you didn't allow yourself to last time. You even reach out and wipe a stray raindrop from his cheek. Or is it a tear? He shuts his eyes at the touch.

"Your letters…"

"Forgive me," you mutter. "I was always too much of a coward to send them."

When he opens his eyes again, you find in them such sudden fire that you're certain he's about to yell at you, to call you names. And you brace yourself to take it, but instead, he surges forward to kiss you.

It is so sudden that you nearly fall backwards, but you catch your balance just in time. He is like a creature possessed, clawing at you desperately, barely willing to part for even a second to catch his breath. But you don't resist him, don't try to stop him, you respond in kind, you become equally wild with desire, taking everything he is willing to offer, devouring his mouth and his throat until he is a moaning mess.

Five years. Five years without this, without his mouth, without his body against yours.

Soon enough, you end up in a heap on the living room floor, hurriedly tearing each other's clothes off in between kisses and gasps and bites. And when there is nothing keeping you from his skin, you trace all the familiar paths with your mouth, find again all the spots that make him moan and gasp and make his toes curl in pleasure. You get him on his hands and knees and you spread his cheeks and you devour his hole like a starving man. And you can't decide what you like best: the delicious sounds he makes, or the beautiful curve of his spine, undulating like the tide as he begs for more.

It all started in a rush, as if you were both afraid that the other would vanish without warning, as if you thought time would run out unexpectedly and pull you apart once more. But it turns tender in time, as he spreads out beneath you on his back, when he opens his legs for you. There is no hurry now, and you take your time getting him ready, and when you slide into the warmth of his body at last, it is like coming home.

You fuck into him long and slow, your eyes never leaving the sight of him. He moans with every thrust, hands clawing at the old carpet.

"Fuck yes," he chokes out. And then, with a longer, whining moan, "Harder…"

He has one leg wrapped around your waist, and you lift the other one onto your shoulder, shift your hips for a better angle, and jab against his prostate in shorter, harder thrusts. His body jolts as if shocked, and his eyes roll back in pleasure. You watch a fat tear roll down his cheek, and reach out to wipe it away, but he grabs your hand with both of his and begins sucking on your fingers avidly.

"Good boy," you grunt breathlessly. "You're mine, aren't you? All mine."

"All yours," he moans wetly around your fingers.

"That man… That… Quidditch player," you snarl with a rough thrust that leaves him gasping for air. "He didn't know… how to fuck you properly… did he?"

"Noooo…" he whines, pushing back into your cock, trying to take you in even deeper.

"Not like this?" you taunt him.

"Not like this…" he echoes in a half-moan.

You drive your hips harder than before. You want to prove your point. To remind you that he's yours, will always be yours. Not matter who else fucks him. He will always belong to you.

"Can you take it?" you rasp.

He knows what you mean at once. "Oh yes! Fuck yes, please!" he begs you.

"You sure?"

"Yessss…" he hisses, eyes bright and eager.

You pause, breathless, and scramble to find your discarded wand from the pile of clothes. Then you pull out of him and, with trembling hands, cast a few lubrication spells for good measure. And then, with all the concentration you can muster, you carefully point your wand at your own cock.

"Engorgio!"

Although you only allow yourself about an inch more in girth and slightly more in length, it still feels obscene, the size of you as you slide back in. His body goes limp for a time as he relaxes into the intrusion, as you fuck into him slowly, your enlarged cock grazing so tightly into him that it's nearly painful.

"Okay?" you manage to ask, because though you've done this plenty of times, you've never gone this big before. "Is it too much?"

A choked moan. "S'good…" And then, "Hold me…"

You slide your hands under his back and lift him onto your lap, holding the back of his neck, tightening your fingers in sweaty curls. He's close now, you feel it in the way he trembles and in the near painful grip on your shoulders.

"Can you come like this?" you grunt out breathlessly. "Just from my cock?"

"Nooooo!" he sobs out helplessly.

"Yes you can," you mutter into his skin. "I know you can. You've done it before. Good boy."

You kiss his face, press your cheek against his, and you thrust a few more times, long and hard and deep as you can go. You hold him through it, you hold him as he comes, untouched, with a broken moan that pierces through you.

You follow him over the edge a moment later, with one last glorious thrust and a surprising amount of come, as tends to be caused by that particular spell. Neither of you speak for a long time afterwards, gasping for breath but never letting go, never loosening your embrace.

"Fuck," he mutters then, mouthing lazily at the side of your jaw.

You stroke gently down the length of his back. "Are you hurt?"

"No," he says at once, though his voice sounds tired and raw. "That was… fucking incredible."

You pull away slightly to look into his face, searching for any sign of pain, but all you find is a smirking mouth and shining eyes. And that stubborn curl of hair that you love so much, sticking out at his right temple, even soaked with sweat. Without thinking, you lean in and suck it into your mouth.

"What are you doing?" he squeals in surprise.

When he bursts out laughing, you feel it reverberating in tremors through his body, and into your own.

Later, you lay in bed, intertwined in the dark. And you talk. At last, you talk.

You talk of what you had and what it meant. You talk of these lost five years. Of the letters, and of what they didn't contain. Eventually, you find the courage to ask him about Voll.

"It only lasted a few months," he admits, his mouth twisted in displeasure. "He was horribly obnoxious. And a truly disappointing fuck. You weren't wrong about that," he adds with a smirk.

"Were there others?"

He shakes his head. "I tried. I really did. But there was always something missing."

You wrap your arms more tightly around him, pulling him closer.

"I would have stayed…" he mutters then, his breath soft against your skin.

Those same words he previously shouted in anger are now soft and honest and true. And regretful.

You take his face in your hands, and you speak to him the way you should have five years ago.

"I know. I know it now and I knew it then," you tell him. "And I never doubted you. But I would have blamed myself for holding you back. I would have lived in fear of you regretting it, of you being unhappy and growing to hate me for making you stay, and leaving me because of that. So it seemed… At the time, it seemed best that you should leave for… a different reason."

He shakes his head, and you feel the tight, angry clench of his jaw in the palm of your hands.

"It wasn't best," he mutters. "And it wasn't for you to decide."

"I understand that now." You pause to find your breath. "I know now… with certainty… things I didn't know before."

"Like what?" he asks softly.

"That I love you," you say at last, as you should have years ago. "That I don't want to grow old without you. That I'll fight for you."

He smiles, eyes bright even in the darkness. "You'll fight?" he muses, before pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Who are you going to fight?"

"All the tall, blond Quidditch players in Europe if I must," you mutter, kissing him back in the same spot.

"They don't stand a chance," he reveals, leaning in close, pressing his nose to yours. "I much prefer dark, handsome, and moody potionmakers."

"But there's only one of those," you point out.

"Yes," Harry mutters, smiling softly. "Lucky him."

"Lucky him," you repeat, leaning in for a kiss.