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Harry Potter, proprietor in residence of Against the Wall, a busy and popular Bed and Breakfast in the town of York, sat at the table in the breakfast room opening the post and sorting out the bills while his friend and co-proprietor, Hermione Granger-Weasley, sat across from him reading a letter.

“This is wonderful, Harry,” she said as she finished the letter and placed it back on the table. “A listing in Europe’s Best B&Bs would really put us on the map.”

“We have to get through the review first,” Harry answered with a sigh, pulling the letter toward him again.

Hermione smiled indulgently at her friend. “You’ll sail through it, Harry,” she said. “According to this letter, we’re only being reviewed because we’ve had so many on-line recommendations.”

“People like it here,” he said with a shrug, glancing around the room fondly. He liked it here. It was homey but not so much so that guests felt they were intruding, comfortable but not worn, well-appointed but not stuffy, clean but not sterile. From the wide stone steps that led up to the scrubbed-clean front porch to the entry foyer with its plank wood floor, brochures and bowl of chocolates to the common room with its squishy chairs and roaring fireplace, this place—purchased after a country-wide search that lasted nearly six months—was meant to be perfect, at least in the eyes of Harry Potter.

After five years of operation, the place had acquired, all on its own, the moniker “gay friendly.” He hadn’t meant to discourage children, and hadn’t intended to deliberately encourage visitors of his own sexual orientation, but the private arrangement of the rooms, the discreetness of the help and his generally open and accepting attitude soon made his little place a favorite for gay male travelers.

Perhaps, Harry thought, it was the name.

The bed and breakfast happened to be located quite close to the great wall that surrounded the town of York, nearly on top of the wall in fact. The name was logical—Against the Wall because it was, in fact, against the town’s wall. The special rooms it now featured had not been part of the original plan and it had taken some convincing to get Hermione to agree to them. She was his business partner and as such, major decisions had to have her approval. While both Harry and Hermione kept their Ministry jobs, Harry lived on-site and undertook the day to day management and upkeep of the place while Hermione handled the marketing and financial concerns in her free time.

With two children not yet at Hogwarts, she was a veritable miracle worker.

In the end, however, Hermione saw the business sense of remodeling the three rooms on the top floor to appeal to a certain type of clientele.

The magical world, with the exception of the Weasleys and Harry and Hermione’s closest friends, knew nothing of this little enterprise.

This highly profitable little enterprise. Not that he really needed the money for himself, but Ron and Hermione were saving to buy a bigger home, and Harry wanted to help Andromeda send Teddy to Uni in a couple years. Harry just wanted something to do when he wasn’t at the Auror Academy, training new recruits in Defensive magic. He wanted a home full of interesting and quirky people who came and went through the front door every few days. He wanted a peaceful life, if not a normal one, and he wanted—oh how he wanted—someone to share it all with.

“This came yesterday?” asked Hermione, examining the envelope that had contained the letter from Europe’s Best B&Bs. “Has the reviewer they say they’re sending—this Ellis Keyes—contacted you yet?”

Harry sighed. “Actually, he called and made his reservation yesterday with Eleanor while I was at the academy. He’s scheduled four nights—four!—starting on Wednesday. He’s even asked to stay in at least two different rooms—more if we can manage it.”

Hermione’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, Harry. You don’t think…?”

He shook his head. “The upstairs rooms are booked on the weekend. If we can keep him occupied the first two nights he’ll not be able to see them. That shouldn’t be a problem. I can use some Muggle repelling charms on the stairs and keep him from the third floor altogether.”

“Good idea. Getting into that guide would be huge, Harry. We could save a fortune on advertising and fill up the rooms more often in the off-season as well.”

“We do fine already, Hermione,” said Harry, frowning slightly. “And listen, if this doesn’t work out, and you and Ron need some extra cash for the down payment, you know I’ve got it. I’ve already offered…”

Hermione cut him off by reaching across the table to grab his hand. She squeezed it and smiled. “Harry, I appreciate the offer. But as we’ve already discussed, Ron and I would like to do it on our own. This place has been turning a good profit for three years now and it’s helped us tremendously. Another good year or two and we’ll have what we need.”

Harry squeezed her hand back. “Well, if you change your mind let me know,” he said.

Hermione bit her bottom lip, a nervous habit she’d had for years now, as she thought out loud. “You know, we’d have time to do a bit of rearranging if you’re concerned about the reviewer—maybe tone down the furnishings in the special rooms…”

“They’re already rented for next weekend,” countered Harry. “And all three by regulars. They’ll not want anything different.” He shook his head and laughed. “Not toned down anyway. You wouldn’t believe the suggestions that came in after the last round of guests used the Dungeon. I’ll just have to try the charms.”

“Well, if he insists on seeing the rooms and you can’t talk him out of it, use that charm Ron and his brothers used to use on their mum—the one that made her see what she wanted to see when she checked if they’d cleaned their rooms.”

“That will work as long as he wants to see a fabulous room in the best B&B in the UK,” answered Harry. “If he comes here wanting us to fail, what he wants to see may be a tiny room with bed bugs, leaky plumbing and stained linens.”

Hermione smiled, a bit indulgently. “You’ll sort him out, Harry. Just tell him you give your family and friends priority for the upstairs rooms.”

Harry, who had taken a long drink of tea while Hermione was speaking, gagged and sputtered.

“You just gave me this horrid image of Molly and Arthur coming by for the weekend and me taking them up to the Dungeon,” he said as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Hermione plucked a serviette from the holder on the side table and pushed it over toward him.

“Your friends, then,” she said with a smile, shaking her head at the look on Harry’s face. “Come on, Harry, that really wouldn’t be so horrible. Luna and Rolf book the Seer’s Chambers now and then. Even Ron and I tried out the Dungeon once…”

“I didn’t need to know that!” Harry exclaimed.

“You’re ridiculous,” said Hermione calmly, pouring more hot water into the teapot. “You already knew that.”

“I’d managed to block it out, though,” said Harry with a shudder. “Now it’s back in my brain again. The look on Ron’s face when you came down to breakfast the next morning. His chafed wrists. How red he turned whenever someone else looked at him.”

Hermione turned an intriguing shade of pink and sipped her tea.

“Well, I had thought we’d spend the night in the Seer’s Chambers, but I had an instant flash-back to Divination so I made Ron move our things across the hall.” She hesitated, then smiled. “No gauzy curtains in that room, were there?”

Harry shook his head dumbly, willing his mind away from thoughts of Ron and Hermione spending a night in one of the B&B’s “special” rooms.

“Well, you use them sometimes, don’t you?” asked Hermione, shifting the conversation focus away from her own sexual exploits with her husband of twelve years.

“I may have—once,” he answered, his voice cautious.

Hermione gave him a calculating look.

“The Headmaster’s Quarters?”

Harry smiled down into his tea. “When is Rose’s next Youth League Quidditch match?”

“You’re changing the subject. You know perfectly well when her games are. You’re a league referee. You have the entire schedule posted on the wall over your desk.” She reached over to the tea service on the table between them and refilled his cup, then looked at him appraisingly. “Are you still pining over Snape, Harry? You told me years ago you were over him.” She didn’t wait for an answer before she sighed and went on. “The man is twenty years older than you, unpleasant, sarcastic and at times downright mean. And he’s no great prize in the looks department either.”

“Hey!” said Harry, who reluctantly had to agree with most of her assessment. “He’s got the most gorgeous cock…”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You don’t even want to think about your friends getting it on in the Dungeon Room but you toss Snape’s cock out on the table like it’s after-dinner conversation?” She grinned. “Well, if that’s the only positive thing you can say about him then I’d suggest you start looking around. There are plenty of men in this world and as far as I’ve been able to determine, every single one of them has a cock. Surely you can find one to rival Snape’s.”

Harry sighed and shook his head slowly. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, adding, “And besides, he smells good, too.”

“Smells good? Are you on something, Harry? He smells like potions. Unpleasant potions.”

“Not under his clothes,” protested Harry. “He smells great naked.”

Hermione leveled a speculative gaze at her friend. “How long were you together?”

Harry pretended to consider. “We dated for about six weeks.”

“Dated?” She was giving him that “mum” look that did him in every time.

“Alright—how about ‘saw each other’?”

“How about fucked like rabbits, Harry?”

“Fine. I was young. Horny.”

“Young hardly describes it, Harry. You were nineteen. You’re how old now?”

“Thirty-three,” he mumbled.

“And when was the last time you saw Snape?”

He shrugged. “No one’s seen him for more than thirteen years. You know that. He took his reward money when the Ministry finally released it, resigned his position as Headmaster and disappeared.”

“And you expect me to believe that you don’t know where he is?”

“I never said that,” said Harry with a smile.

“You know where he is then?” asked Hermione. “Have you tried to contact him? Tell him you’re still interested in him—well, in his cock?” She said the word boldly, but Harry smiled at the blush in her cheeks.

“I thought we were talking about that letter,” said Harry, nodding to the envelope beside Hermione’s elbow from Europe’s Best B&Bs.

“We were,” said Hermione, obviously accustomed to these kinds of circular conversations with Harry. “Which led us to discuss our special rooms and how to keep the reviewer away from them, which led into the current discussion, as you designed and named not one but TWO of the rooms after one of your past lovers. Who happens to be Severus Snape, our former Headmaster.” She threw her hands up in mock disgust and shook her head. “Where is he, anyway, Harry? And what’s he doing?”

“He’s living on an old wizarding estate in Wales,” admitted Harry. “It’s heavily warded and incredibly private. I tried contacting him a few times ten years ago, but he wouldn’t even answer my owls so I eventually gave up.”

“You did dump him for Ginny,” said Hermione gently. “That had to be a slap in the face.”

“So I was confused about my sexuality,” he said. “Sue me. I wanted children.” He sobered at that, thinking back to the travesty of events, the comedy of errors that had led to him breaking it off with Snape, marrying Ginny and subsequently divorcing her within a year. The baby he had thought was his, his son in every way no matter that Michael Corner had provided the DNA, was about to complete his third year at Hogwarts. Harry had managed to get joint custody and was the only father Pippin had ever known. He still regretted having been drunk on his arse at the Hog’s Head with Ron and Neville when Ginny had filled out the birth certificate and named the baby after one of the Hobbits in The Lord of the Rings , but she’d gotten her own when she’d listed Harry as Pip’s father.

“You did alright,” said Hermione, looking around the dining room. “What Ginny did was deplorable—no one is arguing that point at all. I’m glad you were able to move on, Harry. But honestly, you’ve been jumping from one relationship to another since you started dating again…”

“It’s only been ten years,” protested Harry.

“Ten years and at least twenty boyfriends,” sighed Hermione. “What are you waiting for, Harry?”

“Mr. Right,” deadpanned Harry.

“Maybe you should try dating wizards again,” she suggested cautiously.

“Hermione—we’ve been over this too many times already. Let it go. Muggles don’t judge me and their expectations are quite a bit lower. I’m fine. I’m happy.” He smiled. “Let’s just worry about getting through this visit by Mr.—” He glanced over at the letter again, squinting. “—Keyes and then we can talk about my love life.”

“Promise?” asked Hermione lightly as she pulled over a stack of bills and opened her laptop.

“Promise,” said Harry with a smile. But he crossed his fingers under the table even as he spoke.

Against the Wall might be a Muggle establishment, but it was owned by wizards, and despite the fact that one of those wizards was vehemently opposed to the oppression of house-elves, having house-elves available the week before a prominent reviewer spent four nights at your B&B was a decided advantage. Kreacher and Winky worked tirelessly and silently alongside Harry, getting the lower level common areas in shape. Harry trimmed the shrubbery in the front yard, scrubbed the porch and the porch stairs and even polished the brass post box—inside and out. On Wednesday morning, he shopped for produce, bread, meat and eggs, rechecked the tea trays in each of the five guest rooms—three of which were already occupied—checked the public-use computer in the first floor guest office to be sure the homepage was still set to the York Visitor’s Bureau site (a guest several weeks before had reset it to a site featuring MPs in drag) and finally went back to his private quarters to put in his contacts and don a well-cut casual jacket and a clean pair of black jeans. He checked his hair in the mirror. He wore it long, down to his shoulder blades, but it was neatly tied back now, as it generally was these days.

A couple from the States, visiting York for the first time, checked in at half two. They would have the room next to Mr. Keyes, a spacious center room with large windows featuring a four poster with a patchwork quilt over a down ticking. He was still engaged with them, pointing out an excellent pub near the Minster, York’s Gothic cathedral, when the door chimes rang again.

He was expecting only one more guest that day and excused himself for a moment to open the door.

If he had not already known with absolute certainly that Severus Snape would never set foot on his doorstep, not in a thousand years, he would have been sure that the man standing on the porch, studying a folded piece of paper, was in fact his former professor, Headmaster and lover. Of course this man was dressed in Muggle clothes, which gave Harry even more proof that he was simply a close look-alike, a doppelganger. He had a garment bag over one shoulder and a carrier bag, likely for a laptop computer, over the other. His hair was almost the same length as Harry’s, also pulled back in a neat tail. Long for a Muggle these days, but this business certainly allowed some bohemian qualities.

“Hello, I’m Henry Porter,” said Harry, reaching out his hand in welcome. “Welcome to Against the Wall. You must be Ellis Keyes.”

The man refolded the paper and pocketed it then looked up as he reached out his hand as if to shake Harry’s.

And froze.

A look came over his face, a look Harry would love to describe in the future, a mix of shock, humor and curiosity that was not precisely any of those at all.

Harry’s mouth dropped open as the corner of the man’s mouth rose fractionally.

“Oh my God. No. This isn’t a good time. I have a special guest on his way.” He looked over Snape’s shoulder and scanned the street then looked back at Severus. “Merlin’s holy hand grenade, Severus—can you come back next week?” He stepped down onto the porch and pulled Severus by his arm back toward the street. “If you need a place to stay, I’ll call over to the Grumpy Norseman—they have nice rooms at reasonable rates.”

“I don’t need a place to stay, Mr. Porter,” said Severus, yanking his arm away from Harry and straightening the sleeve of his jacket. “I have a reservation already—here.” He reached into his back pocket and Harry flinched, instinctively preparing to drop his wand from his hidden wrist holster into his hand.

Severus held Harry’s eyes, not missing the flinch, as he extracted his wallet and removed a business card which he handed to Harry. Harry took the card and stared at it, looked back up at Severus, stared at the card again. Shook his head.

“No, no, no. No.” He backed away from Severus, stepped back into the house and attempted to close the door. Snape, however, quickly stuck his foot out and inserted the toe between the door and the frame.

“I believe I have a reservation, Mr. Potter—Porter.” He smiled a bit wickedly as he made the correction. “I have just spent four and a half hours on the train and fifteen minutes walking from the train station. Open the door, check me in and show me to my room. Please.”

Harry sighed in resignation then opened the door just enough to let Snape in. “I don’t want to be in your guide, Mr. Keyes,” he said quietly as Severus brushed past him and stood in the entryway, looking around appraisingly.

“Why ever not?” asked Severus as Harry reluctantly abandoned him and went back to the American couple to show them upstairs to their room.

When Harry returned downstairs, Severus was no longer in sight, though his bags were placed neatly against the wall out of the way. Harry stopped on the lowest stair, looking around and taking a moment to take a few deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. His cover was blown—Severus could potentially out him to the wizarding world and his quiet B&B would be overrun with magical folk all wanting to spend a weekend or longer at Harry Potter’s place. Or he could pan the establishment, ruining its reputation. How was this even possible? Severus Snape—posing as Ellis Keyes, Bed and Breakfast critic for a Muggle magazine? Severus Snape waltzing into his establishment dressed in Muggle clothes—well-made, form-fitting Muggle clothes at that—after disappearing from the wizarding world more than thirteen years ago and ignoring all of Harry’s attempts to contact him? Severus Snape coming to Henry Porter’s Bed and Breakfast in the Town of York, England? Eating full English breakfast with the other guests in Harry’s dining room? Sleeping in…?

No. There was no way in hell Harry would be able to keep a full-grown wizard away from the special upstairs rooms, much less the full-grown wizard that was Severus Snape. No number of Muggle repelling charms or confusion hexes would work on this particular reviewer.

“Impressive, Potter.” The voice came from near the parlor windows that overlooked the front courtyard. The front room was a common area where guests mingled if they liked, borrowed books from the lending library, helped themselves to hot tea or coffee, studied maps or ate take-away dinners purchased while they were out in town. Harry stepped down off the staircase, squared his shoulders and walked into the Gathering Area, as he and Hermione had dubbed the room.

More than thirteen years since he’d seen Severus, more than thirteen years since he’d heard that voice and it still had the same effect on him. Severus had not been his first—not exactly. Ginny had had that dubious honor, awkward and unsatisfying as it had been. On the heels of that disastrous coupling, he’d returned to Hogwarts the summer he turned nineteen to celebrate the one-year anniversary of the fall of Voldemort, had gotten pissed with just about everyone else and in that inebriated, foggy state had ended up sitting at the bar in the Hog’s Head, Aberforth keeping his glass topped off, discussing his sexuality with Headmaster Severus Snape.

What was there to discuss, really? He’d not even looked at men before, hadn’t even considered them as sexual partners. But here was Snape, as drunk as the rest of the crowd, stating emphatically that he himself was gay and that based on the number of people in the room, there were at least two other gay men present. One of whom was Harry Potter himself. Harry, three sheets to the wind already, found that statement to be hilarious and (by his rather dim recall) remembered putting his hand on Snape’s thigh. They were sitting on neighboring barstools, after all, and it was all rather crowded and very loud. He had to lean in closer to Snape to make himself heard, and it was only natural to balance himself against the other man.

To this day he remembered that moment—not only the feeling of the muscle beneath the flesh and the satiny fabric of the black robe over the linen trousers, but the appreciative noise Snape made, half sigh, half groan, and the way his hand had moved closer to Snape’s crotch as the Headmaster swiveled slowly toward him in his stool.

“This room is always available for guest use?”

Harry let the memories of that night at the Hog’s Head fall away, shards of a broken mirror crashing to the floor, as he looked up at Snape.

“Yes, of course. My private quarters are in the back. Look—Severus—”

Severus, who was standing in the middle of the parlor now turning slowly to study it in minute detail, stopped, stood casually with arms folded, and regarded him. Raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Do go on.”

Harry took a few steps forward into the room through the open French doors, closed them softly behind him then turned to face Severus again. He took a deep breath. “Listen, you can stay tonight. But let’s just cancel this thing, alright? This is my life, Severus. And very few people know about it. I can’t have the wizarding world finding out and beating down my doors. This is a Muggle establishment, one with a certain reputation….”

“Oh, I know all about that reputation,” interrupted Severus with a knowing half-smile on his face. “Why do you suppose the magazine sent me?”

Harry swallowed nervously. All about that reputation? With some difficulty, he prevented himself from looking upward at the ceiling toward the rooms on the top floor. “I see,” he said slowly.

“A gay-friendly B&B in York, named, appropriately enough, ‘Against the Wall?’ I’ve been reading guest reviews of this establishment on our website for several years and I must admit that it never once crossed my mind that I’d find you of all people here.” His eyes scanned the room again then settled back on Harry. “Whatever happened to Mrs. Potter?”

Harry straightened his back, his face set in a frown. “Don’t give me that. You may have hidden yourself away in some locked down estate in Wales, but don’t even try to tell me you don’t read The Prophet.”

Snape raised a single eyebrow, a gesture Harry used to find both sexy and endearing, the half-smile appearing on his face once again. “Hmm. I may have read something—several years ago, mind you—that mentioned the end of a certain fairytale romance.”

Harry scoffed. “Several years ago?”

Severus shrugged. “Time passes by quickly when you’re living hidden away in a heavily warded private estate in Wales.” He eyed Harry appraisingly. “I’d like to complete my stay, and my review.” He held up a hand as Harry opened his mouth again to protest. “You have nothing to worry about—I keep my Muggle and my magical lives completely separate. I would no more reveal your location to the magical world than I would reveal the name of my Secret Keeper.”

Harry and Severus stared at each other a long moment. “Thank you,” said Harry at last. He kept his eye on Severus as the other man moved toward him. “But honestly—considering the circumstances—don’t you think the magazine should send someone else?”

“Someone else?” repeated Severus. He was either genuinely puzzled or a very good actor.

“Yes, someone neutral. Someone, perhaps, that hasn’t buggered me already?”

“What—are you looking for someone new to bugger you?” Snape shot back at him.

“Get out.”

“You want me to leave? It wasn’t so long ago that you were sending me owls—suggesting we get together for a drink.”

“You did get my owls, you prat! And you didn’t have the common courtesy to answer me, not even to say ‘Thanks but no thanks.’”

“When you were on the rebound from the woman you thought you knocked up? Raising a child that wasn’t even…”

“I knew you knew! Damn it, Severus, just leave. Please.” Harry dropped into an upholstered chair with a matching ottoman that he kicked out of the way in frustration.

“Of course I knew! How could I not know? Even if I were completely illiterate I could have discerned the story from the photographs alone! And since I am capable of reading the tripe in that rag and can do simple math, I was able to determine that a two and a half months premature baby could not possibly weigh ten pounds! Ergo, the baby in question was not your biological child. You were duped, Potter.”

“It took me about a minute to come to the same conclusion!” shot back Harry. “I expected the baby to be whisked off to special premmie care and instead….” He stopped, his mouth drawing up into a tight line. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath and let it out slowly. “Why are we discussing this? My son—and yes, he’s my son, so don’t start with the technicalities—is a third-year at Hogwarts already. This is old news.”

They glared at each other for a drawn-out moment and surprisingly Severus dropped his gaze first, though it apparently cost him quite a bit to do so.

“I will let the matter go. As you say, it is ‘old news.’” Severus’ demeanor changed, returning to that of an all-business food and lodging critic. “Would you please show me to my room now?”

Harry stood up, glancing at Severus, who had turned away and was examining a road map of York on the wall over a low bookshelf. He opened the French doors without looking back at Severus and walked across to the small office just off the entry hall. Ellis Keyes’ reservation paperwork was folded neatly in the cubbyhole labeled “Doyle.” Hermione had suggested naming the rooms on the first floor after famous British writers and decorating them accordingly. He’d put ‘Ellis Keyes’ in the Doyle Room tonight because it had the best window, affording a lovely view out and along the famous city wall. The B&B was only a block away from one of the stairways used by visitors to access the walkway on top of the perimeter wall that nearly circled the city. Hermione had taken great pains to furnish the room with period pieces. The author’s complete Sherlock Holmes was featured on the room’s loaded bookshelves and the decorations and knick-knacks brought to mind the characters and places of the author’s stories. Harry wondered what Severus would make of the Weasley family portrait. Had he read the tales of Sherlock Holmes? Would he equate the family with the Red-headed League?

Harry pulled out the paperwork, aware as he did so that behind him, Severus had entered the office. He picked up a ballpoint pen, unfolded the guest registration form and placed both on the countertop in front of Severus.

“You’ll need to verify the information on the form, initial the rate and sign on the line. Will you be using the same credit card you used to make the reservation?” Now Harry was playing the Muggle business owner, a safe match to Severus’ role.

Severus nodded while he examined the paperwork.

“We’ve a no pets and a no smoking policy,” continued Harry. “You’ve already agreed to those stipulations when you made your on-line reservation, of course. Breakfast is served from seven until nine in the breakfast room—I’ll show it to you on the way up. Tea is at four o’clock in the Gathering Area—the rooms we just left.”

Severus pushed the signed form back toward Harry.

“I’ve got you in the Doyle Room tonight, Number Two,” said Harry, dropping a key ring with two keys on the counter. “The silver key opens the front door, the other is for your room.” He smiled enigmatically. “All of our rooms have en suites, of course. Yours has a particularly large old-fashioned tub.”

“Excellent. I could use a good soak.”

Harry walked around Severus, determinedly not thinking of the sunken tub in the en suite in Severus’ quarters at Hogwarts, and picked up his bags from the passage, leading the way up the narrow stairway to the Doyle Room. While Severus walked around the large and airy room, examining the period furnishings and interesting décor with arms folded in front of him, not touching anything, Harry deposited his bags on the luggage rack and turned to face him. He pointed to a door on the far wall.

“Bath is in there—you’ll find a wide selection of bath crystals on the vanity. You’re probably not interested but Muggles seem to like them.” Severus raised his eyebrows at that but did not comment. “Extra towels and bedclothes are in the wardrobe.” Severus continued to stare at him silently, studying him more than the room now, and Harry turned away and walked to the television. He picked up the remote control.

“Would you like me to show you how to use this?”

“By all means,” said Severus, listening patiently as Harry gave a perfunctory demonstration of the remote control and the rather complicated multi-function bedside alarm clock.

Harry hurried out of the room a moment later after politely taking his leave and reminding Severus that tea was at four o’clock. He went directly down the stairs, through the breakfast room, into the kitchen and from the kitchen through the butler’s pantry into his private living area.

“Fuck!” he said, leaning against the door and drawing out the ‘f’ sound as he exhaled. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, dropped his head in his hands and sighed.

Severus appeared in the Gathering Area for tea at four-fifteen. Kreacher had made scones that day, and Harry was already returning to the kitchen for a second plate when he passed Severus in the corridor. When he returned five minutes later, Severus was sitting at a table for four with two of Harry’s regulars, Daniel and Brett, a couple in their forties who stayed at the B&B on their frequent visits to town to see Brett’s elderly parents. Severus had a map of York spread out on the table and the three appeared to be chatting amiably.

Harry nearly groaned. While Brett and Daniel were staying in the Austen room this week, they frequently rented the upstairs rooms. Harry couldn’t imagine them not sharing what they knew about those rooms with Severus if they continued chatting.

They called Harry over after he put down the fresh scones and asked him to recommend a restaurant for dinner. A man at another table, talking with the American couple, came over then and introduced himself. Winston was in his thirties, attractive, gay as an Easter Parade and from the way he instantly began flirting with Severus, available. He had dark hair, hazel eyes, Harry’s general build and a gorgeous arse. As annoying as the man had been since he checked in the day before, requesting extra pillows when there were already six in the room and bringing his entire tea tray down to exchange two decaffeinated tea bags for two regular, Harry couldn’t help but appreciate what he looked like from behind.

Harry watched furtively as Severus and Winston chatted and got acquainted, hating how annoyed he felt. He was cleaning up the remains of the tea and giving the American couple directions to the Train Museum when Severus and Winston left with Daniel and Brett. Winston had his hand on Severus’ arm. Severus looked…happy. No—interested. Severus Snape never looked happy.

Harry moped around his private rooms, reviewing paperwork from his training job, checking the clock frequently. At half six, when Hermione Flooed over after work, eager to hear how everything had gone with Ellis Keyes, she found Harry sitting on his sofa, staring out the window, drinking scotch.

“Pour me in,” she said, dropping her phone onto the tea table. She toed off her shoes and sat on the other corner of the sofa, accepting a half-full glass from Harry.

“Ellis Keyes, the B&B reviewer, is Severus Snape,” he said dully, taking another drink of his scotch. He looked sideways at her, over the top of his glass, waiting for her reaction.

“What?” Hermione looked confused.

“Ellis Keyes is Severus Snape. The Severus Snape. He showed up on my doorstep at half two and so far has refused to leave.”

“You’re kidding.” She gave him an indulgent smile, as if acknowledging a not-so-funny joke.

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” He lifted his glass and downed the last of the scotch and made a face. Hermione frowned.

“So you’re telling me that Snape has given up his snarky Potions Master career and is now writing for a Muggle travel magazine? Harry, I don’t think….”

“I didn’t get all the details, but yes,” he interrupted. “And now he’s out with Daniel and Brett—and Winston.”

“Daniel and Brett the regulars?” she asked. When Harry nodded, she continued. “Who’s Winston?”

“New guest. Young, attractive, gay. Wants to get in Severus’ trousers. They all went to dinner together.”

“You’re jealous? Harry, you can’t expect Snape to be celibate. He doesn’t even know you’re still interested in him.”

“I’m not interested in him. Or I wasn’t. I didn’t think I was. Not before Winston started hitting on him anyway. I hardly thought about him anymore. Gave up about ten years ago, in fact.”

“Harry, you were just talking about him last week.” Hermione looked at him pointedly. “About his cock,” she added in a low voice.

“I’ll be thinking about that cock ‘til the day I die,” he responded. He looked at Hermione. “It really is that nice.”

“Careful—you don’t want to have to compete with both Winston and me for him,” she joked.

Harry scoffed. “Something wrong with Ron’s cock, Hermione?” He winked at her as she blushed.

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with my husband’s....” She rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you feed me some dinner then we’ll move out to the Gathering Area and wait for the boys to come back? I’ll see if I can corner Severus for you while you chat up Winston.”

“I am not going to ‘chat up’ Winston, Hermione.” Harry held his refilled glass in front of him. Depending on how you looked at it, it was either half empty or half full. He tipped it back, draining if even more.

“You haven’t dated anyone in months, Harry,” said Hermione.

“Why would I go after Winston when Severus is right here?” he asked.

“You really are mixed up about this, aren’t you?” she asked. “This cannot all be about his cock, Harry.”

Hermione had come a long way since they were nineteen and Harry had realized that he was, indeed, interested in cocks other than his own. She no longer turned tomato red, whispered “cock” when she said the word or pretended she had no idea what a cock looked like or what you did with one when you had the chance.

In short, Hermione’s instinctive prudish nature had been replaced with a prurient interest in Harry’s sex life.

Harry glanced over at his friend. He took another long sip of the scotch and drew his own legs up in front of him on the couch, wrapping his arms around his knees, still holding the nearly empty glass of liquor. He sighed.

“I’ve dated a lot of men since Severus,” he began. “Even a few other wizards in those early years. I’ve dated men as old as Severus and men quite a bit younger. And I’ve measured every one of them to Severus.” He glanced at her sidelong. “And I’m not talking about the size of their cocks, either.” He held out his hand and the scotch bottle flew off the cabinet and sailed toward him. He filled his glass again, checked that Hermione didn’t yet need a refill, and sent the bottle back. He turned the glass in his hand, staring at it. “It’s hard to explain. He could be such an utter prick at times. But Christ! He made me feel so…alive…even though the relationship was so physical. He took me places—the theater, the Louvre. We even took a gondola ride in Venice. I remember the feeling in my stomach when he came out to watch me in a pick-up Quidditch match. He was so intense, so focused. So…I don’t know…invested in me.” He smiled, staring at the glass in his hands. “I was so much happier with him than I’d been with Ginny. Merlin—it was all so new—being with a man, someone who knew what he was doing, who knew what he wanted. No fumbling around in the dark. He was so goddamn sure of himself.”

“It was only six weeks, Harry. You didn’t...you didn’t love him, did you?” Hermione sipped her scotch and continued to study her friend.

He shrugged. “I’d like to say that I did, but I don’t think so. Not really. It was fun, exciting. Hell, it was dangerous and I loved the danger. I loved that it was so totally unexpected. That I was doing something a lot of people disapproved of. But that wasn’t everything.” He shrugged. “We connected somehow. We understood each other. And Merlin, he was such a great lover. I’ve never had….” He paused, glancing over at Hermione, an apologetic look on his face. She gave him a small nod, encouraging him to continue. “I’ve never had a lover like him since. One that took so much care with me—to make sure I enjoyed everything we did, that it was as good for me as it was for him. I realized after only a few times with him that he…well, that he got off on my enjoyment.”

“I’ve been one of your best friends for more than twenty years, Harry,” said Hermione when he paused, exhaling another deep sigh, “but this is the first time I heard anything about Snape from you that wasn’t directly related to his…well, to his cock. I think…” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but Snape sounds like a romantic. Venice? The Louvre? Watching you play Quidditch?”

“Shit—I appreciated those things back then. I’d die for that kind of attention now. You know, I think I’m just nostalgic is all.”

“You need to date other wizards again, Harry. I’ve told you this already. You’re always hiding yourself from your boyfriends. Being less of yourself, only half the man you truly are. Maybe that’s another reason Snape stands out so much in your memory.”

He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Thanks, Hermione,” he said, smiling at his friend and partner. “You’re probably right. Let’s grab something to eat and take it out to the Gathering Area.”

“I’m going to have lots of questions for him, Harry.”

“Try to stick to the reason he’s here. As long as he’s insisting on staying, we may as well get the best review possible out of him.”

“Right,” said Hermione. “And to that end—behave yourself. Be polite and helpful, like a proper Bed and Breakfast owner.” She stared at him a long moment over the top of her glass. “And stop thinking about his cock. Instead, think of all that extra revenue coming in from a listing in Europe’s Best B&Bs.”

“Money for your new house. Right. I’m going to have my own room in that house when you build it, aren’t I?” he asked. “And you’ve given in to Ron on the Quidditch pitch?”

“You boys,” she responded, smiling. “He had to agree to the library first but yes, we’ll be putting in a Quidditch pitch. A small one. No dangerous ten-story stands.”

Harry stood up and said wistfully, “As much as I love Quidditch, I’d still rather have that cock.”

“You’d give up Quidditch for Snape’s cock?” asked Hermione in disbelief.

“I’d consider it.”

Hermione looked at her friend. She had a suspicion that this wasn’t all about a magnificent cock but rather what—and who—it was attached to.

“No, you really shouldn’t attempt the Minster tower if you’re claustrophobic,” advised Harry. He refrained, with difficulty, from checking his watch again. He and Hermione had been in the Gathering Area for nearly an hour and had been chatting with the couple staying in the Woolf Room for twenty minutes now. “About half of the climb you’re in a narrow spiral stone stairway.”

When the front door opened fifteen minutes later, he was circling tearoom locations on a visitors’ map. “There’s a coupon on their website,” he said. “I’d be happy to print one up for you.” He stood up, ready to go into the office to print the coupon, when Severus and Winston appeared in the doorway. From the way Winston was staggering, he was obviously drunk, and Severus was obviously not happy about it. Behind them, Brett and Daniel passed by in the corridor, waved at him and started up the stairs.

“Mr. Hedges has misplaced his room key,” Severus said, taking a step into the room and addressing Harry. “If you would let him into his room, I’ll return to the pub and search for the keys.”

“I’ll take him up, Harry,” said Hermione, moving past Harry toward the door. Like the brilliant witch she was, she nodded politely at Severus, not acknowledging that she knew him. “Which room is he in?”

“Tennyson,” answered Harry. He turned toward Severus. “I’ll ring the pub, Mr. Keyes. No need for you to go searching tonight. The keys are unmarked except for the room number. I’ll bolt the front door from the inside after everyone’s in for the night, just in case.”

As Harry was speaking, Winston moved into the room behind Severus. He reached his hands around Severus’ waist and squeezed him, dropping his hands lower until they were resting across his groin.

Harry watched in fascination as Severus’ lips tightened and his face took on the look of the irate Potions Master after Neville Longbottom’s cauldron exploded—again.

“Ellis,” cooed Winston. “You’re comin’ up with me, right?” Harry’s mouth dropped open a fraction as the man leaned in to rest his chin on Severus’ shoulder and plant a sloppy kiss on his neck beneath his ear. Hermione had reappeared in the passage with the spare key and was watching the unfolding drama from behind Severus.

“No, I do not think I will be joining you, Mr. Hedges. You are drunk.”

“’Course I’m drunk,” he said as Severus peeled Winston’s hands off of his midsection.

“Come on Mr. Hedges, let’s get you upstairs,” said Harry quickly, moving behind Severus and taking the intoxicated man by the arm. He nodded to Severus. “If you could wait here a few minutes, Mr. Keyes, I’d like you to meet my partner.”

An odd look crossed Severus’ face but he nodded and walked over to a leather armchair and sank down onto it.

He was still sitting there five minutes later when they came back downstairs. The Woolfs—Harry invariably referred to his guests by the name of their room instead of by their own surnames—had gone out again for a wholesome York ghost walk and Severus was alone in the room, holding his mobile phone and looking at it rather blankly.

“Mr. Keyes. Thank you for waiting,” began Harry formally.

“We were at The Old White Swan,” said Severus without preamble.

“The Old White Swan? Oh. Right. Let me go ahead and ring them up, then. Perhaps while I do that you can speak with my partner, Hermione Granger. Hermione, this is Ellis Keyes, the reviewer I told you about from Europe’s Best B&Bs.”

“Mr. Keyes,” said Hermione politely, taking his hand.

“Oh please. We can drop the charade,” said Severus. “We’re the only ones here now. I didn’t realize that Harry had a partner, Ms. Granger. How long have you two been together?”

Hermione looked confused for a moment then let out a rather unprofessional giggle.

“Business partners,” she clarified. “We own this place together. We purchased it five years ago.”

“I’ll go call the pub then,” said Harry, shaking his head as he stepped out of the room, leaving Hermione alone with Severus.

“You gave Harry a right start when you showed up here today,” said Hermione, quickly getting down to business. “You don’t plan on exposing us to the wizarding world, do you? Harry’s quite happy in his anonymity and we’ve built a successful Muggle enterprise here.”

Snape relaxed back in his chair, resting his chin on his clasped hands. “Indeed. I’ve been quite impressed so far. The room themes were your idea, then?”

She smiled. “I came up with the idea of naming the rooms for famous British authors. Harry selected Doyle and Tennyson. I chose Austen, Woolf and Carroll. I do feel that we’ve neglected quite a few others, but we may work them in eventually.”

“It’s an intriguing idea. Mr. Potter is unattached, then?”

“As in romantically?” she answered, unabashed. When he nodded, she answered, “Currently, yes.” She frowned. “He doesn’t date wizards, you know.”

“Meaning he dates witches or that he dates only Muggles?”

“Muggles,” Hermione answered with a sigh. “Only Muggles.”

They stared at each other. They could hear Harry on the phone in his little office on the other side of the passage.

“So why did you never respond to Harry’s letters?” she asked.

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business, Ms. Granger,” he answered, looking at her sharply.

“Of course it is,” she countered. “Harry’s my friend. He needs closure.”

“He needs closure on a six-week relationship that he ended more than a decade ago?”

“He thought highly of you. He…” she faltered, recovered. “He enjoyed your time together.”

Severus smirked. “I remember.”

Hermione blushed. “He is definitely gay. He has you to thank for that, I understand.”

“He thinks I made him gay?” Hermione couldn’t tell if he was amused or offended.

“Of course not.” Hermione glanced out the open French doors. Harry was still on the phone in the office. “But you were his first—well, his first man, anyway. You never forget your first, do you?”

Severus was staring at her curiously. He opened his mouth to say something but Harry chose that moment to come back in the room.

“They’ve got the keys down at the Swan,” he said. He looked vaguely disturbed. “Winston is checking out in the morning so I’ll go pick them up when I get a chance.” He sat down on the loveseat next to Hermione. “I hope Hermione has been filling you in on our business here, Severus,” he said, rather formally.

“Oh, certainly. She’s been telling me all about your business,” Severus answered, glancing across at Hermione then turning back toward Harry. “What brought you into the B&B business anyway, Potter? Last I heard you had a Ministry job.”

“I stayed at one—in Edinburgh. I was traveling with…a friend. I was completely taken with the concept—spent hours talking with the owner of the place. I came back and told Hermione and Ron about it and we—well, mainly Hermione—spent quite a while researching before we decided to give it a go. And I still have that Ministry job, by the way. Three days a week—I’m a Defense trainer for recruits at the Auror Academy.”

Harry liked the way Severus looked at him then. An open, evaluative stare, almost, perhaps, as if seeing this grown-up Harry for the first time. A glance, brief but obvious, at his well-fitting Muggle clothes.

“You appear to run a tight ship here, Mr. Potter. Perhaps the order and discipline of your Ministry job bleeds over into your Muggle life.”

“A successful B&B like ours requires both,” Harry responded. “We built Against the Wall from the ground up. The building had been used as a rooming house in the past but the upper floors had been unused for years when we purchased it. First and foremost, this is my home. I take care of it like it’s my home, treat each of the rooms as an extension of my home.”

“But in the background we never forget it’s a business,” supplied Hermione. “Every decision has to be an appropriate business decision. We reinvest some of the profit back into the B&B of course—upgrades and improvements, new décor for the rooms, linens and towels....”

“Already of superior quality,” noted Severus, adding “It’s the first thing I check. What percent of profits is reinvested?” He directed his question to Hermione. Harry, however, watched Severus as his business partner answered.

“Do you ask all the venues you review for that information?” replied Hermione, the corner of her mouth twitching, suggesting a suppressed smile.

“If I have the opportunity,” Severus replied smoothly, eyes sweeping around the room then back to the owners.

“Mind you, we calculate profit as net revenue once expenses are deducted, and all the maintenance and upkeep are logged as expenses, as well as the cost of help, meals and supplies and routine replacement of linens and furnishings. Profits are split into thirds, with one third each going to the two partners and the final third into a reinvestment fund.” She smiled at Severus and Harry noted that the look on his face was utterly professional and quite…Muggle. “The over-sized tub in the room you’re using was a recent improvement, along with the bath salt selection.”

“I plan to be in that tub shortly,” said Severus with a trace of a smile. He glanced around the room again, taking in the appearance, the décor, the arrangement of furnishings. “I’m interested in the reputation of Against the Wall,” he continued. “It obviously attracts gay males—mostly couples, I’m told.” He paused but neither Harry nor Hermione said a thing, each waiting for the question. “Yet, when I look around, I don’t get the immediate sense that I’m in a gay man’s home. There’s a bit too much…clutter. These rooms are just on this side of cozy in fact.”

“The guests don’t come here for the décor,” said Harry. The tension he had felt from the moment he found Severus on his doorstep six and a half hours ago, the memories of the abruptly ended relationship, the nostalgia for the excitement Severus had brought to his young life, all had receded again to the back of his mind as he dealt with the reality of his business enterprise and the passion with which he approached his chosen Muggle career. “They’re here to visit York, and I’m here to help them have the best time possible, whatever their interests. I believe our reputation comes from the fact that we look at people as people. I don’t have any prejudices and couldn’t care less if the guests sharing the room are married or of the same sex or race. People are people. When they come here, we make them feel welcome but don’t single them out for any special attention because of their interests, or tastes, or sexual preference.” He paused, smiled. “If they ask me for a recommendation for a gay-friendly pub, I’ll make the recommendation. But most important, I go the extra mile to get to know them a bit and point them in the right direction to make their trip more memorable.”

Severus leaned forward, one hand resting on the arm of his chair, index finger tapping the leather slowly. “Visitors in general want information and assistance but don’t appreciate meddling.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Meddling?” He smiled across at Severus. “You’ll find we do no meddling here, Severus. Meddling would be if I made a recommendation for a pub for your evening pints and meal then followed up with you and asked what you ordered and whether you enjoyed your meal. Meddling would be if I later chatted with the barkeep about some lost keys and when he told me one of the waiters found the keys in the alley out back kicked up against the brick wall, I’d ask you how exactly they got there. That would be meddling, Severus.”

“Harry doesn’t meddle,” Hermione said with conviction, cutting off the sharp rejoinder that Snape must have been about to make—his mouth had opened and his hand had risen off the arm of the chair. “People who opt for a B&B instead of a more traditional hotel are looking for a more personal experience or they wouldn’t be here. But personal is not the same as prying, or meddlesome.” She glanced sideways at Harry, giving him her “calm down and let me handle this” look. “Harry is quite excellent in this job, as I’m sure you’ll see over the next few days.” She shot a warning look over at Harry again, doubtless a silent plea for him to keep his mouth shut and not invite Severus to shorten his stay. “I hope you understand, Professor…” she trailed off, realized her error and corrected herself. “I mean Mr. Snape—you’re quite a special case. Only a few select people from the magical world know about this little business of ours. And Harry has certainly never had to be host to anyone with whom he shared a….” She faltered again. “A past.”

Severus seemed to consider her words as he watched Harry’s hand tighten on the arm of the loveseat, fingers digging into the upholstery and squeezing, releasing, squeezing again. He cleared his throat. “From what I’ve seen so far, Mr. Potter is an exceptional host and this establishment is an exceptional B&B.” He stood then and inclined his head to Harry. “I will endeavor to keep this visit strictly professional, Mr. Potter, but I expect the same consideration from you. Treat me like any other guest. I imagine that you wouldn’t get your dander up if either of you suspected that any other of your guests were shagging in an alley behind The Old White Swan.”

“Get my dander up?”

“Harry….” Hermione’s voice held that warning again.

“And who said anything about shagging? Were you and Winston actually shagging in the alley?”

“Harry!”

“Who said anything about me and Winston?” Hermione stopped glaring at Harry and instead stared at Severus. She had a suspicion that he wanted very much for Harry to think he was indignant. But something was off….

“My apologies,” said Harry suddenly. “You’re quite right. It’s none of my business what my guests do, or with whom.” He stood and reached out his hand to Severus, who took it after staring at Harry’s outstretched fingers a moment longer. “Let’s start fresh in the morning,” he said, shaking then releasing Severus’ hand. His voice took on a more formal tone. “Is there anything else you need tonight, Mr. Keyes?”

“Thank you but no, Mr. Porter.” Severus nodded to Hermione and walked over to the French doors. “I’ll see you at breakfast then.”

“Goodnight,” said Hermione while Harry nodded this time.

“Goodnight,” said Severus. He turned to leave then stopped and turned back to face them again.

“Perhaps after breakfast we can have a tour of the top floor? I’m told by my dinner companions that I should check out the ‘Headmaster’s Quarters.’” He looked like he was trying very hard, and without too much success, to keep the smirk off his face.

“We are so fucked,” moaned Harry after Severus’ footsteps had receded and the passage and stairway were quiet again.

“I don’t think so, Harry,” said Hermione. She stood then bent to kiss his cheek. “He’s playing with you, Harry. And mark my words—he’s intrigued by those rooms upstairs. Make no apologies for them—we cater to our customers. In the end, we make their vacations better, remember? And we make a profit.”

“What do you mean—intrigued?” he asked, apparently not hearing anything else that she said.

“You’ll see,” she said. “Remember—make no apologies. Present the rooms as a business case. Are they all booked this weekend?”

“Not quite—the Headmaster’s Quarters are free on Friday….”

“Then offer it to him, Harry.”

“What? Are you insane? That room?”

“Trust me, Harry.”

She peeked out in the passage to make sure the coast was clear, checked to see that the curtains were all drawn, then turned on the spot and was gone with a subtle crack.

He’d learned years ago that Hermione was nearly always right about these things and he wanted to trust her. But with this? With the Headmaster’s Quarters with its giant four poster bed, selection of canes, black robes hanging on a hook on the wall and school ties in the top dresser drawer? And the desk? The solid cherry wood desk with that polished top, as long as a man, with those interesting soft ropes and cuffs stored in the top center drawer?

Try as he might as he walked back to his rooms behind the kitchen, he could not get the image out of his head of the first time Severus had had him, in a room very much like the room upstairs, face down on a desk very much like the desk in that very same room, bent over with arse in the air and legs splayed behind him, toes barely touching the floor. It was his second sexual experience, the first with a man. After all these years, it was the one he remembered the most, the one stuck in his memory, in his fantasies.

The one against which he measured every other experience.

But he couldn’t tell Hermione that, could he?

He was so fucked.

Against the Wall was a Bed and Breakfast and as such breakfast played a major part in Harry’s day. Served from seven until nine, it consisted of a variety of “serve yourself” items such as breads, cereals, pastries, yogurt and juices, tea and coffee, as well as made-to-order offerings with “full English” always an option.

Harry did most of the cooking himself, though he called in Kreacher or Winky when he had a full house.

He could always count on the Americans ordering full English the first morning then, after leaving the blood pudding, fried tomato and beans on the plate barely touched, ordering more selectively the next day.

The American couple appeared at seven sharp and ordered full English, as expected, and tea rather than coffee. He brought their tea tray out then disappeared into the kitchen. He used an alarm charm to alert him when someone entered or left the dining room, a soft chime to let him know he had another guest or two to serve. There were eight in all today, the American couple, Brett and Daniel, a mother and daughter from Ireland, Winston and Severus.

He had just completed the first two plates and removed the warming charm when Brett and Daniel appeared. Both loved bacon, so he put a few slices on the griddle, turned it on low and carried the Americans’ finished plates into the dining room, served them up in the right order—over easy to the woman and poached to her husband, asked if they wanted coffee (both accepted, as expected) then confirmed that Brett and Daniel wanted their usual order. He brought their tea tray in along with the French press coffee for the Americans, disappeared back into the kitchen and ten minutes later came out with Brett and Daniel’s bacon and toast.

Winston came down at quarter of eight, sat with Brett and Daniel and ordered coffee and toast. He seemed a bit queasy with the aroma of the fry-up and didn’t stay downstairs very long.

Severus appeared at ten minutes after eight.

Brett and Daniel, who had been lingering over their tea, were standing up next to his table, on their way out, when Harry came into the dining room to take Severus’ order.

“Harry, we were wondering if we could switch rooms tonight,” said Brett as soon as he saw Harry.

Harry glanced at Severus, caught his extremely interested look, then turned back to Brett.

“All the standard rooms are booked tonight,” he replied, a bit carefully.

Daniel, who had been chatting with Severus, turned to Harry and grinned. “Oh, we don’t want one of the standard rooms,” he said. “The Dungeon this time, Brett?”

Brett smiled back at Daniel. “Right.” He turned to Harry. “Is the room available?”

Harry gave the best professional smile he could muster. “It is. But only for tonight—it’s booked Saturday. Come by the office for the key when you’re ready to move up.”

“You’ll have to come up and take a look, Ellis,” said Daniel to Severus. “It’s brilliant, really.”

“The Dungeon, eh?” said Severus, giving them the kind of grin that had no business being on Severus Snape’s face—ever. “Not really my cup of tea, but I’d like to take a look all the same.”

“Oh, it’s not some medieval torture room if that’s what you’re thinking,” laughed Brett. “It’s more like being in a mad scientist’s laboratory.”

That remark elicited a double eyebrow lift as Snape leveled a quick and somewhat calculating look at Harry.

“Yeah, a mad scientist obsessed with making edible body oils from tingly mint extracts,” said Daniel.

“You haven’t slept until you’ve slept on a cold slate slab,” added Brett. “The mattress slides right off….”

“Gentlemen,” interrupted Severus, his voice taking on a hint of the silkiness Harry so remembered. “My trousers are already a bit snug and I’d like to leave a bit of room in them so I can enjoy breakfast.”

The other men laughed and Harry found himself smiling as well. He thought he might have liked Ellis Keyes, if he could ever have gotten accustomed to seeing him walking around in Severus’ body.

“I’d love to come up and see the room, and then have Mr. Porter here show me the others.” Severus gave Harry a challenging smile. “How about this afternoon? I plan to work off this breakfast by climbing the Minster tower this morning.”

A minute later, Harry and Severus were alone in the dining room. Harry had managed to compose himself and was mentally recalling the promise they had made the night before, to start afresh in the morning, to be B&B proprietor Harry Porter and critic/reviewer Ellis Keyes.

“Coffee or tea, Mr. Keyes?” he asked with a proper proprietor smile.

“Tea, please,” responded Severus. Harry pointed out the self-serve juice and other items on the sideboard and left to prepare the tea tray. He came back with the tray, set it carefully on the table before Severus and went through the menu choices. He wasn’t surprised that Severus ordered the full English; it was a good way to sample a bit of everything the inn had to offer.

“Would you like me to add bacon to that?” he asked, then, when Severus nodded, gave him the choice of hash browns or bubble and squeak.

“Which do you recommend, Mr. Porter?” Severus eyed him as he stirred his tea. He’d just added the barest smidgeon of milk.

“Bubble and squeak,” answered Harry. He shrugged and smiled apologetically. “Actually, I just like to say it.”

“Bubble and squeak it is then,” answered Severus. He turned back to the newspaper he’d picked up from the table by the door and Harry disappeared again into the kitchen.

He tried not to take any more care than he would have with any guest as he prepared Severus’ breakfast. His sense of fair play, always overdeveloped, had not diminished with time. Oddly, he felt that using a warming charm was akin to cheating, so he put the waiting plate on the stovetop as he finished the eggs. He served the breakfast and greeted the two women from Ireland, who entered the dining room just behind him. He was back in a few minutes with a tea tray for the women and a warm up for Severus. The women opted for a quick, serve-yourself breakfast and Harry chatted with them for a minute then turned to leave for the kitchen to begin the clean-up.

“Mr. Porter—would you join me for tea? You look like you could use a breather.”

Severus’ voice reached him in the doorway and he stopped and turned around. The women were looking at him over their teacups and Severus lifted his in invitation.

“Of course. Thank you.” Harry picked up a cup from the sideboard and sat down across from Severus. He placed his cup on the table and Severus placed the strainer on it, then poured. The tea was still extremely hot, and very fragrant. Harry narrowed his eyes, suspecting a warming charm. He looked up to see that Severus was holding the milk. He waited for Harry’s nod, added a bit of milk, stirred then pushed the cup over in front of Harry. Harry picked up the cup and took a drink. Delicious. He served only the best teas at Against the Wall.

“I used to take sugar,” he said, quietly so that the Irish ladies couldn’t hear.

“I remember that,” said Severus, just as quietly.

“But you didn’t offer any.”

“I assumed you’d grown out of that youthful preference,” he said.

Harry added a touch more milk and stirred it. “I take a bit more milk now that I’ve given up sugar,” he explained.

They sat in silence, sipping their tea, until Harry spoke.

“So, you’re tackling the Minster tower today.”

“I am. I assume the climb is worth the view?”

“It is. They only allow you a short time on top as the first group has to come down before the next group goes up. But you’ll have a magnificent view of the town and of the country out beyond it. And it’s a clear day, too. Knees aren’t giving you any trouble, are they?” He picked up his cup and took a drink, looking at Severus over the top of it.

“Mr. Porter,” said Severus smoothly. “I thought we agreed last night….”

Harry looked puzzled for a moment then, as realization dawned, turned an intriguing shade of pink.

Severus shook his head. “Now you remember.”

Harry attempted a recovery. “How are those knees now, anyway?” The picture, the startling clear image of Severus down on his knees in front of him, sucking him off after pushing him up against his bedroom door, was front and center in his mind now. He could almost hear Severus groan as he sank to his knees, always complaining that the floor was too hard and ”…thank Merlin your cock tastes so good, is so fucking gorgeous….”

He realized suddenly, with an odd jolt, that no one had complimented his cock like that since. His lovers had all been far too interested getting a piece of his arse to pay too much attention to his cock.

“My knees are fine,” said Severus and left it at that.

“The man that works at the top of the Minster tower,” said Harry after a slightly uncomfortable pause. “His name is Fawkes—Al Fawkes.”

Severus’ cup had paused midway between the table and his mouth.

“You’re having me on.”

Harry shook his head, smiled sadly. “No. That’s his name. Anyway, tell him you’re staying at my place and he’ll point it out for you. He’ll also show you some of the other highlights in the distance and some of the architectural features of the church itself.” He paused, considering. “Looks more like old Tom from the Leaky Cauldron than Albus Dumbledore, except for the eyes.”

“The eyes?” asked Severus. He stirred a tad more milk in his tea, staring at the milky liquid, then looked across the table at Harry. “Blue, I assume? Half-moon glasses?”

Harry shook his head. “They twinkle,” he said, his voice tinged with sadness.

“Well then,” said Severus, standing up. “It just may be worth the climb.”

Harry had buzzed over to the Ministry for a half day, leaving Eleanor, his housekeeper and backup, in charge. He proctored a written exam and, even after running into Arthur Weasley and ducking into his office for twenty minutes, he was still back home before three o’clock.

The house was quiet when he walked through his quarters into the kitchen and from the kitchen through the breakfast room and into the corridor. Eleanor, who was sitting in the office reading the newspaper waiting for him, told him that Winston had checked out at eleven and the new guests, a French couple, had checked in at two and were already out exploring the town. She’d already put together the trays for the four o’clock tea, leaving him with little to do for the afternoon, so he picked up the newspaper and wandered into the Gathering Area, where he settled into the large leather armchair Severus had occupied the night before.

He dozed off and woke some time later to muted shouting. He sat up, groggy from his short nap. Someone was fumbling at the front door, attempting to unlock it hastily. He stood and hurried into the passage, glancing out the narrow side light windows next to the door. Severus was standing on the doorstep, obviously shaken, trying to turn the key properly in the sometimes tricky lock.

Harry pulled the door open and Severus nearly fell inside, closing the door behind him and leaning on it heavily.

“Who is that?” asked Harry, pushing in front of Severus again to look out the window toward the street where a man was standing, still yelling, shaking his hand in the air.

“Dissatisfied innkeeper,” said Severus. His voice was shaky.

“Wait a minute. That’s Alistair Browning.” Harry whirled around to face Severus. “He’s not one to trifle with, Severus. He’s got quite the reputation....”

“I already know about his reputation.” Severus moved several steps inside and leaned against the wall, still trying to catch his breath. “He used to own an inn in Bath. Deplorable place. I panned it rather thoroughly. I’m surprised to find him here.”

“He opened the Norse Soldier last year,” said Harry, looking back out toward the street where Browning was pulling back his arm, poised to throw something. “Hey!”

The rock hit the window, shattering it neatly. Harry jumped back out of the way then yanked at the door knob, prepared to rush out and take on Browning man to man.

Severus, however, had his wand out. His first spell locked the door magically so Harry could not open it. His second was aimed at Browning. The man’s eyes suddenly sealed shut and he stumbled around in the street, disoriented. A moment later, the window was repaired as well and Severus was moving back toward the breakfast room.

“Where are you going?” asked Harry, following behind as Severus moved directly through the breakfast room into the kitchen. “Hey, that’s not a public area!”

“I need ice,” answered Severus. And indeed, by the time Harry caught up with him in the kitchen, the freezer door was open and he was helping himself to ice cubes from the automatic ice maker.

“Ice? What the hell happened to you?” Harry could see now that Severus’ mouth and jaw were swollen. “Did he belt you?”

Severus rolled his eyes. “Walked right up to me in the pub where I was eating lunch and punched me in the mouth. Ouch.” Severus speech was slightly slurred and he spoke with some difficulty. He spat out a mouthful of blood into his hand.

“Christ on a bike, Severus. Here.” Harry grabbed a clean dish towel and handed it to Severus then led him to a chair and pushed him into it. “Did they call the police?”

“Unfortunately, no,” answered Severus, dabbing gingerly at his mouth with the towel. “I had the misfortune of being in the Norse Soldier. His establishment. He belted me and chased me out of the place. Followed me all the way back here.”

Harry had his wand out again. “Tergeo,” he said, clearing the excess blood away. ”Episkey.” Severus nodded his thanks and accepted a clean towel from Harry. He dropped several ice cubes into it then wrapped it and pressed it up gingerly against his mouth.

“What did you say about his inn?” asked Harry. “People walk on eggshells around that bloke. He’s unstable.” He picked up the bloody towel and banished it, then moved Severus’ hand holding the makeshift ice pack away from his chin. He studied the swollen jaw, shook his head, and gently pushed the ice pack back down. “I don’t suppose you have a healing potion upstairs?”

Severus scowled. “Of course I do. I’ll get it in a moment.” He moved the ice pack lower. “As for what I said about his inn. The truth. I always tell the unvarnished truth. The inn was dirty, the mattress uncomfortable, the linens of inferior quality. The shower was not hot and was mounted so low that the water hit me in the navel. The window did not close properly and the décor was reminiscent of Hagrid’s hut.”

“Hey! Don’t go making fun of Hagrid.”

“Hagrid is a perfectly lovely human being—well, half human being anyway. I am pointing out his dubious decorating sensibilities, not making fun of him.”

Harry thought he pronounced the word “lovely” with a bit too much sarcasm, but didn’t comment. “Point taken,” he said.

“And I’m not finished yet,” said Severus. He rewrapped the ice in the towel and sighed. “The innkeeper himself was rude and unhelpful. The staff was surly. He tried to charge me a higher rate than what was advertised. The walls were so thin I could almost see the couple in the room next to mine having intercourse. I certainly could hear them. Did I mention the mice already?”

“No, you didn’t,” said Harry, suddenly immensely glad that he had never seen a mouse in his establishment.

“Well, there were mice. The inn obviously not only did not make it into Europe’s Best B&Bs but received my only ‘zero stars’ rating ever. And if that wasn’t enough to set off Mr. Browning, his wife made a pass at me. Accosted me in the corridor. She was pissed as a newt and smelled of mothballs. If I hadn’t already been a homosexual I would have become one after that episode. Browning blamed me, even though he saw her attack me. Said I led her on with my form-fitting trousers.”

Harry couldn’t resist a quick glance at said trousers. He smiled and shook his head.

“You should go upstairs and take that potion,” he said. He went to the sink to wash his hands, drying them on a clean towel, then turning to face Severus again. “Alistair Browning has a checkered history already here in York. And I have to tell you—he’s not too fond of me. Thinks I’m promoting ‘unsavory’ lifestyles by attracting ‘deviants’ to York.”

“And now he knows I’m staying here,” said Severus. “My apologies. I would not have come directly back here had I known but I was hoping to avoid further confrontation with the man.”

“I’m roundly supported in town,” said Harry, “as is my establishment. They’ll run him out of town if he keeps this up. He’s crossed the line by throwing that rock and breaking my window—not to mention accosting you.” He smiled grimly. “By the way, hadn’t you better remove that eyelid sticking charm?”

“Hadn’t I?” Severus cast a Finite reluctantly. “I hope by now he’s pulled out all of his eyelashes.”

Severus stood, put the towel he’d used as an ice pack in the sink and touched the edge of his mouth gingerly. He grimaced then sighed. “Let me know when Daniel and Brett come in,” he said as he turned to leave. “Despite my condition, I’d still like to take that tour you promised, Mr. Porter.”

“I don’t recall promising anything, Mr. Keyes,” replied Harry. “You discovered that I offer certain guests some special…accommodations…and expected that I’d show them to you.”

Severus glared at Harry. “You are planning to, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Not if there’s any chance you’ll describe them in the guide. It’s word of mouth only with those rooms, and we still manage to fill them nearly every weekend and about half the other nights as well.”

“That popular, eh?” asked Severus. He stared at Harry. “I suppose I can leave it at ‘themed’ rooms if you’d like, and describe one or two on the lower floor.”

“I think I can agree to that,” said Harry. “Let’s go up after tea then, shall we? We can go without Brett and Daniel if they’re not in yet. They’ve seen them all already anyway.”

“They’ve done more than just see them if I’m to believe what I hear.”

Harry sighed, shook his head in mock exasperation and put the kettle on for tea. Severus started toward the door but stopped when Harry called after him.

“You didn’t say—did you meet Mr. Fawkes?”

Severus turned around. “Funny you didn’t mention the white beard.”

Harry shrugged. “More like steely grey, wouldn’t you say? And it’s certainly not as impressive as Dumbledore’s. The man’s still in his fifties after all.”

“Still….”

Harry turned away, busying himself with the kettle. “The first time I met him, I imagined myself on a different tower.”

Severus stared at his back for a moment longer. Harry never saw the pained look that crossed his face as he turned around and left the room.

Brett and Daniel returned during teatime and by the time Harry had cleared the remains from the Gathering Area, Severus had already been treated to a tour of the Dungeon. Harry had watched him climb the stairs with his jovial companions and had taken and released a deep breath. There was nothing for it. Severus would see the room and would surely bring his questions—and comments—back to Harry.

Harry was washing up in the kitchen when someone knocked on the closed door that led to it from the public breakfast room.

“Come on in,” he called out, not surprised when Severus stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. There was some noticeable bruising around Severus’ jaw and his lower lip was somewhat swollen, but the healing potion and Harry’s spells had certainly taken care of most of the damage from Mr. Browning.

“You’ve been upstairs,” said Harry as he dried another teacup and placed it in the cabinet.

“Miss Granger may have dreamed up my room, but she certainly is not responsible for what I’ve just seen.”

Harry had been preparing himself mentally for this moment and managed to respond rather calmly, remembering the advice Hermione had given him the previous night.

“No. The upstairs rooms were my idea. It took some convincing but she finally gave in. They’ve been quite profitable, actually.” He picked up another teacup from the drainer and began to dry it, turning to face Severus as he did so.

Severus stared at Harry, as if once again seeing someone—or something—he didn’t expect. “The room was not quite what I anticipated.”

“Oh?” Harry mechanically put away the cup and reached for another. “What did you expect, then?”

Severus made a sound halfway between a laugh and a snort. “Dungeons, I suppose. Not a bedroom.”

“It’s a Bed and Breakfast, Severus. The central feature of each of our rooms, including the special rooms upstairs, is the bed. People come here to sleep.”

“And some come to play,” commented Severus. He walked across the room and studied a painting on the wall, a still life of fruit in a bowl, a plump ripe pear prominent in the foreground.

“Is this…?” He reached out toward the pear with his right hand, touched it with his fingers. It giggled.

“It was being replaced and I asked if I could purchase it,” said Harry. “I had a lot of happy memories of the kitchens at Hogwarts.”

Severus turned toward Harry. “That room. It was….” He seemed to struggle for the right word. “It was exquisite. The detail….” He trailed off again and turned back to stare at the painting. “I expected it to look like your Potions classroom…my Potions classroom,” he said, still studying the painting. He turned suddenly to look at Harry. Harry realized he’d been drying the same cup now for some time. “And while there were some noted similarities, the ambience was dangerously inviting instead of stark and inhibiting. And the bed….”

“Liked the bed, did you?” asked Harry with a small smile. He put away the last cup, folded the towel and hung it over the faucet.

“Ingenious,” Severus said. “Brett and Daniel demonstrated how it converts to the lab table and showed me the accessories.” His voice was low. “Merlin’s arse, Harry. The light fixture over the bed—it’s from Hogwarts, isn’t it? From my Potions lab?”

“I had to replace the oil lamps with electric fixtures of course,” said Harry. “But yes, it’s the very same. Helps that I have friends at Hogwarts. When they modernized the Dungeon classrooms a few years ago I asked if I could purchase a few items.”

“Daniel demonstrated that the fixture is very securely attached to the ceiling,” said Severus.

Harry smiled. “It is. Each of the four chains is attached directly to a beam, and the beams are reinforced as well. I had that done as a precaution when I realized the fixture would hang directly over the lab table.”

“I recognized the cauldrons as well.”

Harry leaned back against the sink and folded his arms across his chest.

“I expected you would be a bit more upset. I was actually planning to hide the top floor rooms from Mr. Keyes.”

“And how were you planning to do that?” asked Severus.

“Muggle repelling charms.

“That might have worked actually—on a Muggle,” replied Severus.

“Then tell me something,” said Harry. He pushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear and stared across at Severus. “How does Mr. Keyes plan to address these special upstairs room in his review?”

“There are options,” replied Severus. “I must admit I haven’t run into a situation quite like this one before. I could bolster your business quite a bit by describing the rooms in detail. Your clientele would change dramatically, I would think, and you’d probably want to redo all the rooms in similar themes.”

“I’d prefer to keep things as they are,” Harry said quickly, the cautious friendliness that had been in his voice earlier replaced by a cooler professionalism. “What exactly do I have to do to keep you from writing about them, Mr. Keyes?”

“I said there are options, Mr. Porter,” repeated Severus, frowning. “Though your preference is noted.” He walked back to the door that led into the dining room. “Are you finished in here? I’d like to see those other two rooms.”

“I appreciate your consideration of my feelings,” said Harry. “Listen—Severus.” He paused, his face taking on a vulnerable look that was both out of place and a trifle winsome. “There was a reason I reached out to you all those ago. I wanted to apologize, first off.”

“Apologize? For what? For abruptly ending our very satisfying relationship and marrying Ginevra Weasley a month later?”

“Yes. Well, no. I thought she was pregnant with my child. I thought it was the right thing to do. But I didn’t handle it well and I didn’t treat you fairly. I acted selfishly.”

Severus shrugged. “You were not quite nineteen. I shouldn’t have expected you to behave any differently.”

“But you did,” said Harry softly. “And I did behave deplorably. Worse yet, you were right. About me. That I couldn’t be happy with Ginny—or with any woman. Things were already a mess even before the baby came. That’s what I wanted to tell you—to acknowledge that you knew me better than I knew myself.”

Severus was staring at Harry as he spoke. “I wouldn’t say that giving up something you enjoyed to take on the responsibility of a family was exactly…selfish.”

“I wanted a child. I didn’t exactly want Ginny.”

“Duly noted.”

“I wouldn’t mind…catching up. Since you’re here anyway. If you want to, of course…if you have time….”

Severus raised his eyebrows. Harry was reminded of the first conversation they had had after he’d woken up in Severus’ bed that first morning, sore in places he’d never been sore before, body inexplicably wrapped around Severus’, head pillowed on his chest, almost in the crook of his neck. He’d babbled then too, apologizing as he searched for his scattered clothing, wincing as he sat down on the bed to pull on his socks. Severus had wrapped an arm around his waist from behind as he dressed, pulling him back on to the bed and down next to him, spooning up behind him, morning erection pressing into the cleft of his arse.

“Shut up, Potter,” he’d mumbled then, voice raw and rich before pulling him even more tightly back against him, nuzzling his neck with his stubbly cheek and chin, and falling back asleep.

“Potter, shut up,” he said now. “Show me those rooms and then—then we’ll talk.”

And so it was that five minutes later, after Harry sighed in resignation and went to the office to collect the keys, Harry and Severus stood outside the door marked “7.”

“The Seer’s Chambers,” said Harry. He dropped the key into his right hand. “Are you sure you want to go in here?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” asked Severus.

“Have you ever been in the Divination classroom?” asked Harry, resting his hand on the doorknob after inserting the key.

“Why would I want to do that?” asked Severus, voice edged with sarcasm.

Harry turned the key and pushed open the door. He flipped a switch on the wall beside the door and dim, muted lights turned up in at least a dozen places around the room.

“I probably don’t have to tell you that this is our romantic fantasy room,” Harry said. He stood back against the wall while Severus stepped farther into the room, eyes focused on the central feature, the enormous canopy bed with its beaded curtains half hidden by gauzy fabric. The bed was heaped with pillows of different shapes and colors. Severus moved to one of the bed’s tall corner posts and fingered a wispy scarf that had been tied to the bedpost. Harry knew that there were a dozen of these tied to each bedpost, of many different colors and lengths, ready to be used by the guests as their fantasies dictated.

The furniture was all soft, low and extremely comfortable. A chaise longue upholstered in a buttercup yellow, wide enough for two, was positioned at the bay window that overlooked the back of the inn and looked out over the wall and beyond. Tarot cards, a murky crystal ball and an elaborate silver tea service sat together on a round table covered with a lace tablecloth. Severus walked around the room, fingering the scarves on another bedpost idly. He picked up the deck of cards and dealt out four in a row, face up, studied them a moment, glanced over at Harry, then returned them to the deck. He paused at a long, waist-high table on the wall next to the bathroom door and picked up a few of the cones and sticks of incense there, smelling each one in turn then replacing it.

“The bathroom is the other highlight,” said Harry, nodding toward the door. “We built up the floor and added stairs to give the appearance of a sunken tub. It easily fits two. You may not be surprised to know that we’ve had three people rent this room together a number of times.”

While the bathroom tub was indeed magnificent, the oversized shower stall with its eight pulsating shower heads, each at a different level and spread out on each of the three walls, commanded a good bit of attention as well and Severus studied it for some time. A collection of exotic bath oils was displayed on the vanity and candle and incense holders were lined up around the back of the tub. The bathroom rugs decorating the floor were soft and thick. Severus fingered a towel hanging from one of the towel racks. Superior quality. Oversized.

“The towel racks are warming racks too,” said Harry from the doorway. “So the towels will be warm when you finish your bath.”

Severus nodded in approval, eyes moving back to the tub.

“Look up,” suggested Harry. Severus raised his eyes to the ceiling. A domed skylight had been installed over the bathtub. Currently, he had a view of the clear blue sky, sun low on the horizon.

“It’s particularly lovely at night. Hermione had suggested using mirrors over the tub. She really got into the décor after I convinced her to give the adult themes approach a try. But this room—this room seemed to suggest the stars.”

“I quite agree,” said Severus quietly.

They walked back together into the bedroom and Harry opened the door and moved into the corridor.

“Just the one room left, then,” he said.

Severus watched as Harry fiddled nervously with the key in his hand then turned to walk toward the last door, this one at the far end of the corridor. He paused to stare at Harry’s form from behind, at his waist which was just as narrow as it had been when he was nineteen, at his broad shoulders, at his perfect arse which filled his jeans much better than it had back then when his weight was still trying to catch up with his last growth spurt.

They paused in front of the last door, Number Eight, and Harry turned to face Severus then, cheeks slightly flushed. Severus, who had just ogled the man from behind, felt a stir of arousal when he saw that flush.

“I’m not sure how you’re going to take this one,” Harry said, key still in his hand. “As you may already suspect, you were the inspiration for the room.”

Severus Snape had closed the mental door on Harry Potter years ago. His ability to compartmentalize, his skills at Occlusion, his very focused mentality had all helped him ‘get over’ Harry not long after the boy came to him that night, told him that he was going back to Ginny, that she was pregnant with his child, that he was going to do what was right, help raise his child, give his child a proper family. He’d read the messages the young man had sent after the child was born, after he divorced his wife. But he hadn’t replied. For the best, he had told himself. He’s too young for me anyway. And he has that child still. His focus will not be on me. He told himself that those were the reasons he refused to look back, that pride had nothing to do with it, that letting Harry Potter go when he was so blatantly offering himself again left him with a win, not a loss.

In his mind, Harry Potter had remained a nineteen-year-old boy, fresh out of Hogwarts, a trainee in the Auror Corps. A rash, impertinent not-quite-child who wore his heart on his sleeve. Who’d sown his wild oats with Severus Snape. An icon of the wizarding world who ultimately was not for Severus, though he had not felt an ounce of guilt for romancing him, taking him, as he had for those six short weeks. The boy had been so eager to learn, so quick to appreciate the fine arts, so willing to try new things—fine wines, old scotch, Japanese sushi, every sexual position Severus had suggested and a few more he’d come up with on his own.

Now, studying that intriguing blush on his cheeks, Severus knew that Harry had not been able to completely lock away Severus in a backroom in his mind.

Suddenly, Harry dropped the key into Severus’ hand.

“I think I’ll let you explore this room on your own,” he said as he took two steps back from the door. “I think you’ll see I haven’t quite forgotten you—even after all these years.”

Severus watched him go without protest, heard him reach the bottom of the stairway before he turned to face the door, carefully inserted the key into the lock and turned the knob to open it.

He reminded himself, as he pushed open the door, that he was Ellis Keyes, a Muggle, reviewing a highly recommended Bed and Breakfast in York, England. What would Ellis Keyes think of the room he was about to see?

The room revealed to him was paneled in heavy, dark wood. He reached over and flipped the light switch, illuminating only an old-fashioned desk lamp on a heavy desk in an alcove.

Behind the desk, on a wooden rack on the wall, were the canes. At least a dozen of them, of various lengths, made of willow and elm and hickory and pine. Several of them had decorative heads, of silver or copper or ivory or carved wood. His eyes rested on them for quite some time. Canes. He owned several, had indeed had them when he’d been with Harry. Had never used them on Harry, was not interested in doing so. What had Harry seen in his room, in him, that he had never considered?

He stepped inside and walked over to the bedside table, turning on another old-fashioned lamp there. The bulb in the lamp flickered a bit, much like a candle.

The bed. Merlin, how he’d missed this bed over the years. Unlike the others he had seen that day, this bed was a sleigh style, with massive curved headboard and footboard. The wood was mahogany, the mattress thick and high, the duvet spread over the comforter cream colored, rich, soft. It was, at first appearance, a simple bed. Its main feature was its size—easily eight feet across and six and a half long.

He stared at it, suspicious. Moved around it, skirting his hand lightly over the top of the footboard as he walked to the other side. Bent down to find and trace the Hogwarts crest etched into the wood at the base of the footboard. Used his fingers to feel the tell-tale scar from the paperweight he had thrown after that final conversation with Harry.

How Harry Potter had managed to acquire this bed, this very bed, he couldn’t begin to fathom. He had stayed at Hogwarts at the request of the Ministry for two years following the defeat of the Dark Lord. While the Ministry rebuilt itself, sorted itself out. While Hogwarts was rebuilt, restaffed. While the Hogwarts Board of Governors was disbanded and rebuilt.

This bed had stood in his quarters above his office.

It had been his bed for three years, and Dumbledore’s for many years before that.

He’d brought Harry to this bed that first night, on the one-year anniversary of the defeat of Voldemort. And back again many times.

What did it mean—this bed, here, in Harry Potter’s Bed and Breakfast, used by clients seeking the fulfillment of fantasies? He was both revolted and inexplicably intrigued. He turned away, moving over to the desk, relieved to find upon quick investigation that it was not his own. But the inkwell, the quill…the paperweight? Severus reached out and picked up the small cast iron cauldron, the size of his fist. He stared at it for a long moment, his mind transported back to that day, that day he bade Harry a final farewell, calm, collected, delivering that final message—“You will not be happy with Ginny Weasley. You cannot be happy with a woman.” Pouring the firewhisky when Harry left. Downing a glass quickly, pouring a second. Toying with the paperweight, seemingly idly, then hurling it across the room.

He put the miniature cauldron back on the desk, carefully arranging it just behind the inkwell and quill, and glanced around the room again. Pegs on the wall between the bed and the wardrobe held long black robes. Severus was relieved to find they were not his own robes at all but rather the type academics wore, both more modern and more ornate than the ones he had favored as Potions Master and as Headmaster.

A bookshelf beside the wardrobe held biographies of famous Muggle scientists, textbooks on Chemistry, Physics and Calculus, a dictionary, a thesaurus, an anatomy handbook. A long wooden ruler sat atop the books on the top shelf, a veritable antique. Above the bookshelf on the wall was a diploma from Oxford, dated a half century earlier, a map of Europe from the same period, a photograph in sepia tones of a severe-looking man with angular features sitting behind a desk, quill in hand, pince nez reading glasses perched on his nose.

A dressing chair stood next to the wardrobe. Braces, belts and school ties were hung over its back along with an ascot or two and a pair of long socks with suspenders.

Suspenders. He frowned. Wonderful touch, but Harry had borrowed from his imagination for that one or perhaps from an experience with someone other than himself.

A low cabinet near the desk held a formal tea service, each piece of beautifully polished silver. At the end of the bed, beside the alcove, was one of the largest fireplaces Severus had ever encountered in a Muggle establishment. Fireplace tools, heavy, almost medieval in appearance, hung on a rack on the hearth. Poker, tongs, brush, shovel, bellows. His eyes moved up to the mantle. He was surprised to see what he assumed to be a replica of his own Floo powder container, a low stoneware bowl, but when he reached inside he found only matches. His eyes slid across to the mantel clock positioned in the center of the shelf. It seemed at first glance to be a traditional clock, its rounded, tapered shape appearing to blend seamlessly in with the mantel shelf. Roman numerals marked the four quarters of the face, and two hands, one slightly longer than the other, marked the current time.

But atop the clock was a lion crafted in brass, and the hands of the clock—the hands were an elaborate and finely wrought serpent and a delicate stirring rod.

He reached out a thumb and brushed it across the crystal face, noticing now the winged golden ball caught in the lion’s mouth, looking, to the casual observer, like a small bird.

What was going on in Harry Potter’s head? In his life?

Why had he created a room…this room? Oh, he could see the attraction of a room like this to a particular type of clientele, a room that invited a certain kind of role play. A room with a large, imposing bed and those black robes and old pictures and musty books and those canes. A room that would be amazing, appropriate, even without the paperweight, without the clock.

With any sleigh-style bed.

He didn’t bother going into the bathroom.

Or opening the wardrobe.

Instead, he let himself out, locked the door behind him and made his way thoughtfully back to his own room. Here he dropped both sets of keys on the bedside table, sat on the edge of the bed, removed his shoes and fell backward, staring at the canopy, lost in thought. Realizing, at last, that Harry Potter had had quite a different relationship with him all those years ago than he had had with Harry.

He dared himself then to crack open the door that closed off those days. As with eyes open only a slit, to let in the barest trace of light, he recalled the exuberance of youth, the tabula rasa presented him, the contemplation in Harry’s eyes as they regarded the Venus de Milo, how he understood Picasso’s La Guernica, old beyond his years. He compared the youthful countenance, the virginal naiveté, the delightful concentration in Harry’s eyes the first time he had topped with this other Harry, mature, settled, so comfortable in his skin, so confident, but somehow still tentative when it came to Severus Snape.

Severus did not regret having had Harry Potter. Did not regret for a moment that that almost one-off drunken fling had grown into a full-blown, albeit brief, affair. Harry Potter’s body was young, his heart not yet broken, his experience of the world would fit in a thimble the size of magical Britain. Severus, a year after the battle that had killed the Dark Lord, was biding his time as Headmaster of Hogwarts until the Ministry settlements were made and he could retire, escape his jaded reputation, reinvent himself in a career of his own choosing.

Harry Potter had been a welcome and, quite frankly, a delightful diversion.

He had not loved him, but he could have. Had he allowed himself. Had he dared.

That Harry had ended it instead of himself was a surprise, and a blow to his pride and to his ego.

He had retaliated well and ultimately won the game by ignoring Harry’s owls when his marriage had quickly failed.

Severus remembered what Hermione had said—that Potter only dated Muggles. The rooms upstairs told their story. Harry Potter’s daily life, his corporeal existence, was grounded in the Muggle World.

But his heart still longed for Magic.

Had he grown up enough for this Severus? A Severus who was now on the right side of fifty, who wasn’t quite so interested in showing a young lover the world? A Severus no longer biding his time at Hogwarts until the Ministry got off its duff and paid out the wartime rewards and the galleons that accompanied those Orders of Merlin? A Severus Snape as at home in the Muggle world as Harry was himself?

A Severus who was, perhaps, looking for something more than a diversion, a joyride through troubled times, a body to fuck into the mattress after a hard day of headmaster stress? A physical connection without the entangling emotional ties?

Severus closed his eyes.

He liked this Harry.

And he loved Against the Wall. It was one of the best B&Bs of its kind he had ever visited, and he’d visited a fair number of them in the last eight years. Harry got it. He understood the business, the clients, the art of the trade. He was a businessman come into his own.

He was only insecure around Severus and frankly, Severus found that both endearing and intriguing.

Severus smiled as he thought about this chance encounter between their Muggle alter egos.

Harry Potter wanted to talk. Severus would talk. But Harry deserved to know the truth. And that, indeed, was where Severus intended to start out.

The note left in the office from the guest in the Doyle Room requested a move to the Headmaster’s Quarters, if the room was available Friday night. It also invited Harry to dinner Friday evening.

Harry drummed his fingers against the note nervously. Both the Dungeon and the Seer’s Chambers were booked all weekend, but the Headmaster’s Quarters were reserved only for Saturday night.

He instructed Eleanor to make arrangements to have Mr. Keyes moved to the Headmaster’s Quarters while the man was out sightseeing in the morning and left a note for her to deliver to him, accepting his dinner invitation. He had a full day at the Ministry ahead of him to puzzle out these unexpected requests.

He’d fretted himself into a stomachache the evening before, after he’d left Severus alone in the Headmaster’s Quarters. He’d expected to hear something from him, but the man had apparently gone directly back to his own room. Harry had stood outside his door for several minutes, hand poised more than once to rap on the door, but ultimately he’d decided not to risk the confrontation and had retreated downstairs.

A medical situation with the couple from the States took up the remainder of his evening. Mrs. Tate had ended up in hospital with suspected appendicitis and Harry had assisted with everything from a home visit by a local physician to transportation to the hospital to contacting the couple’s daughter back in New York. By ten o’clock, he was exhausted. He turned in for the night, stomachache long gone after the stress of the evening made him forget the Headmaster’s Quarters and long for nothing but his bed.

Friday at the Ministry passed slowly. His youngest students, the recruits that had started the previous July, were a rowdy lot. The best of the six, a woman named Adelle Addington, had a particular grace and beauty that the male recruits definitely recognized, blinding them to her deadly skill with the wand and her lightning-fast reflexes. Today both Enid Squires and Tom Chambers had ended up in St. Mungo’s after dueling her. That meant paperwork for Harry and he was thirty minutes late getting back to the inn.

Eleanor had prepared and served tea, and Harry found her standing behind the counter in the office chatting amiably with Severus when he made his way over from his private suite.

Flirting with Severus, if he didn’t know better.

She reddened a bit when she saw him.

“Mr. Porter.” She turned her head toward him. “Mr. Keyes and I were just discussing our local restaurants and pubs. I suggested The Four Sisters. What do you think?”

“I think The Four Sisters is a good choice,” Harry answered. He turned toward Severus. “Good afternoon, Mr. Keyes. I trust you moved into your new room without a problem?”

Severus nodded. “Your staff moved me up while I was out walking the wall this morning. I’ve already had a nap.” He smiled. “The bed in my first room was extraordinary. This one is even better. I can give you nothing but top marks on comfort.”

Eleanor giggled. “Most people don’t choose that room for comfort,” she said with a wink and a smile.

“You can get on your way now, Eleanor,” said Harry quickly, moving behind the counter. “I’m back for the evening. Any news on Mrs. Tate?”

“Out of surgery and recovering nicely. Her daughter is on her way over so I’ve held back the Doyle room for her.”

“Excellent. Flowers?”

“Ordered and delivered.”

“And Mr. Tate?”

“Sent Neil down with fish and chips from Hedwig’s. He promises he’ll come back tonight for a rest now that she’s out of danger.”

“Excellent.” Harry smiled. “You’re worth your weight in gold, Eleanor.” When she disappeared down the corridor toward the kitchen and the back exit a moment later, he added, “Almost makes up for your chattiness.”

“For the record, I was chatting her up,” commented Severus.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Right.”

Severus shook his head. “Not like that. I was asking her about the rooms upstairs. What kind of guests stay there. How long they’ve been open. How often they’re booked. What they go for per night compared to the first floor rooms.”

“Oh.” Harry gave Severus a calculated look. “You could have asked me all those things.”

Severus shrugged one shoulder, a gesture Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen Severus make before. “Trick of the trade. I always target the staff away from the owner. If they’re happy, they tend to be chatty, just like your Eleanor. However, with the number of gay men who frequent this place, you’d think she would know when flirting wouldn’t be productive.”

“She’s an equal opportunity flirter,” said Harry with a sigh.

“I learned quite a bit from that short conversation you just had with her.”

Harry pretended to be busy studying a checklist. His only response to Severus was a nod.

“Hungry yet?”

“We could start with a pint,” suggested Harry. “Are we going to The Four Sisters?”

“How about Hedwig’s?” suggested Severus, feigning indifference and picking up a local restaurant guide from a stack on the counter.

Harry looked up quickly, a protest on his lips.

“Hedwig’s, Harry?”

“I think you’ll prefer The Four Sisters,” muttered Harry, squatting down behind the counter to put away a stack of brochures.

“So, you’ve got your hand in more than one business in town.” Severus was persistent. “Do I need to look around for a souvenir shop called Hagrid’s Hut?’”

Harry stood back up slowly. He’d managed to compose himself.

“May I ask who’s inquiring?” he said.

Severus regarded him a long moment. “I am,” he said at last. He added more softly, when Harry remained quiet. “Severus.”

“The souvenir shop is The Snowy Owl.”

The corner of Severus’ mouth twitched.

“Come on, I’m all for that pint now.” Harry moved from behind the counter and headed out of the office toward the front door. Harry moved quickly, smoothly, with confidence. He didn’t need an arm to hold on to anymore when he went out to meet the world.

He turned when he reached the front door and Severus, following in his wake, looked like he approved.

“You used me.” An hour and a quarter and three pints later, warm comforting pub food freshly served on the table, Harry put down his fork and stared at Severus.

“I suppose you could call it that,” agreed Severus, a bit reluctantly. He was thankful for the drink and took another long draw from his pint glass.

“It seemed so real.” Harry picked up his fork and toyed with his potatoes.

“It was real. I enjoyed every minute we spent together. Well, nearly every minute. I didn’t enjoy that awkward dinner at the Burrow….”

Harry couldn’t help but smile. “God, that was awful.”

Severus returned the smile. “I enjoyed having a young, fit lover. I enjoyed introducing you to the world. But I didn’t intend for the relationship to go anywhere. And I hardly thought you would stay with me once you had fully discovered the joys of the male body and realized how many more male bodies were available.”

“You weren’t upset then? When I dumped you for Ginny?” Harry gave up on the potatoes and picked up his pint glass instead. “You seemed so angry.”

“I was angry. I had every intention of being the dumper, not the dumpee. I would have done it as soon as I saw your eye wandering.”

“I don’t get it,” said Harry, watching Severus eat his dinner with precise movements of fork and knife. “Why did you think my eye would wander?”

Severus raised one eyebrow but kept working on his food. He took a bite and swallowed it then looked up at Harry. “You were young. Well known. Attractive. There would be ample competition once it was well known what your preferences were. I am hardly the epitome of the male form, Harry.”

“Honestly, Severus. Are you blind? I’ve had a dozen lovers since and not one of them measured up to you.” He leaned in a bit in the crowded pub, lowered his voice. “I’ve never seen a lovelier cock than yours, nor had a man who knew how to use one better.” He smiled. “You don’t think very highly of yourself, do you?” he asked speculatively.

Severus stared at Harry, gauging him, reading him. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah. I am.” Harry picked up his utensils and cut into his meat pie. He hid the blush he knew was creeping onto his cheeks by staring at his plate and working on his pie.

“That does not explain the room,” Severus said, his voice as low as Harry’s had been.

“I think it does,” said Harry noncommittally.

“It might explain a room patterned after my own,” countered Severus. “It would not explain you going out of your way to get the very bed we slept in. Nor does it explain the mantel clock.”

Harry smiled, a bit sadly. “No, I guess it wouldn’t, would it?” He ate one or two more bites then ordered another pint. “Shit, Severus. What can I say? You were my first. I had the best six weeks of my life with you. Life with Ginny was hard from the off. Then when my son was born, supposedly two months early but weighing a hefty ten pounds, and I knew he couldn’t be my biological child, I realized I’d been used by her. I left her immediately and filed for joint custody of the baby.” He paused, gave another enigmatic smile. “I realized right away what I’d thrown away. It took me another two years to get up the courage to write to you. I finally gave up—reckoned you’d moved on for good. Eventually I moved on, too.” He laughed again, staring at Severus across the table, the beer warming him and loosening his tongue as he lowered his voice. “But I’ve always remembered our time together. And that cock. Fondly.”

“I’m rather fond of it myself,” said Severus. He had finished his meal ahead of Harry, who had spent quite a bit of time studiously looking at his own lap. “You’re not at all the same person I knew back then, Harry. But you were the brightest thing I’d had in my life for years.” He picked up his glass and held it up, clicked Harry’s with his own. “I liked you. I missed you when you’d gone. But, as you said, I moved on.” He took another drink of beer. “But like you, I found that ‘nothing ever took,’ as they say.”

“How did you get into this business?” asked Harry a few minutes later. They’d drained their glasses and finished their meals and were waiting for their bill.

“Same way you did,” said Severus. “Boyfriend.”

“I never said….”

“Please.” Severus rolled his eyes. “Who else would you be with when you stayed at a B&B in Edinburgh?”

“Right. So you had a boyfriend who what? Owned a B&B?”

“He was a restaurant critic. He was the first Muggle I dated.” He scoffed. “If you can call it dating. I met him in a bar.” He shook his head. “I submitted hotel and B&B reviews on-line whenever I traveled.” He toyed with his napkin. “I used to travel a lot in those days—visiting castles in Scotland and Wales. Anyway, this boyfriend showed my reviews to his editor and I was offered a job. I was growing bored at the time, living off the Ministry reward and doing some potions on the side for select customers.” He glanced around, lowering his voice. “Mainly Wolfsbane. That was about eight years ago. The boyfriend only lasted a few more months but the job I kept.”

“I was on a castle tour when I stayed at my first B&B,” said Harry, draining his pint and signaling the passing waitress for their check. A few minutes later, Severus had paid the bill and they walked outside together.

“I’m going to pop in on the Tates at the hospital before visiting hours are over,” said Harry. He paused, then smiled at Severus. “I enjoyed dinner. Would you be interested in a drink in my rooms with me when I get back?”

“When I have the Headmaster’s Quarters for the evening?” said Severus. “Why don’t you come up when you’re back? I’d like to hear about that restaurant and gift shop.”

“Alright,” answered Harry, obviously pleased at the invitation. “I’ll bring the scotch.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Scotch, is it? Young Harry Potter has indeed grown up.”

“Henry Porter is the scotch drinker,” said Harry with a grin. “Harry Potter likes firewhisky.”

They walked another block together and stopped near a side street that led to the back alley behind the row of shops they’d just passed.

“I’ll head back here and Apparate,” said Harry, indicating the quiet alley behind them.

Severus nodded. “I’ll walk. I could use the exercise after that meal.”

Harry watched Severus walk down the block and turn right at the corner, disappearing from his view. He considered Apparating directly home, perhaps directly into the Headmaster’s Quarters, beating Severus there and leaving the Tates for another day. Regretfully, he pushed that urge away and turned, taking a step toward the entrance to the street just as a loud voice shouted out at him.

“Fucking poofs!”

Harry bristled, recognizing that voice and hearing the heavy slur. Browning. And he’d been drinking.

“Goin’ back t’ the Wall t’ shag?” taunted Browning, his voice carrying and echoing along the street.

Harry turned, backing up instinctively, his hand moving toward his pocket as he continued to move into the deserted side street. Browning was holding what looked like a heavy crowbar, swinging it low, almost casually, beside his right leg.

Harry started to reach for his wand. Browning assumed he was going for his phone.

“Who’re ya calling? Yer mummy?” he taunted. “Or yer boyfriend? Is Keyes yer sugar daddy, Porter? With that face he’d better ‘ave a ten-inch cock ta make kissin’ that mug worth it.”

“Put that thing down or I’m calling the police,” warned Harry, his fingers now touching the handle of his wand.

Browning, however, managed to surprise Harry by unexpectedly dropping the verbal attack instead of the crowbar, charging at him, swinging the tool-turned-weapon, fast and furious, connecting with his thigh and sending Harry crashing to the ground, his vision already darkening with the blinding pain. With his target down, he stabbed into the shattered leg with the prying end of the tool just as Harry caught him with the strongest Stupefy his shaky body could muster.

Browning crashed down on top of him, landing face-first across his upper body. The crowbar, partially embedded in Harry’s leg still, pulled out of the flesh and clattered to the ground. The weight of the body on top of Harry’s kept him from writhing in pain but did not prevent his strangled scream of agony.

There was no way that Harry could move Browning without magic. He clenched his wand, barely managing a weak Mobilicorpus, just enough to levitate the dead weight off of him and to the side, the spell failing quickly and the Stupefied body dropping unceremoniously to the cobblestones. He cringed as he heard Browning’s head crack against the ground. Nothing for it. He had to breathe.

Harry lay there, waves of pain so intense overtaking him that he could hardly think much less move. Concentrating enough to gather his thoughts, to plan his next move, caused his head to throb, his eyes to blur. Stand. He had to be on his feet to Apparate. Fuck. He pushed up with his elbows, raising his head. Tried to scoot back, an inch, two, toward the wall behind him. Nausea welled up from within the cocoon of pain. He turned his head to the side and wretched, tears leaking from his eyes, pain stabbing out from his battered leg as he heaved. No. Couldn’t just lay here, bleeding. Couldn’t go into shock here in this stinking side street, covered with blood and vomit. Needed to call out, get help from a passing Muggle. Needed to put his wand away first.

Wand. He could send his Patronus to Severus. Giddily, he wondered if Muggles could see a Patronus. If someone would call the police when they saw a ghostly stag prancing down Petegate Street. Nothing for it. He tried for a happy thought. What came to him was the promised drink in Severus’ room that night.

“Expecto Patronum!”

He thought Prongs looked a little faint.

“Get Severus,” he gasped. “Bring him here.”

It felt like forever. It was only five minutes.

“Harry!”

The muttered oaths as Severus dropped to his knees beside him, examined him. The tingle of a spell on his leg, a staccato burst of pain as the stabilizing charm took hold. Arms around him, gathering him up. Pressing his head against the warmth of Severus’ chest. No time to grab a breath before the blackness pressed against him.

They reappeared in the Headmaster’s Quarters, Harry moaning against the pain now, groaning out expletives and clinging blindly to Severus, who arranged him face-up on the thick rug at the side of the bed, then hurried into the en suite for clean towels. He knelt to strip Harry of his shoes and socks, then trousers and pants, cursing when Harry cried out at the pain, but keeping at it, pulling them down carefully over the wounded leg, cursing at the amount of blood.

“Fucking hurts,” moaned Harry, writhing as Severus wrapped towels around his leg and pressed them tightly to slow the bleeding.

“Who did this? Browning?” Severus asked, voice terse.

“Yeah,” Harry breathed out. “Crowbar. Fuck!” He tensed, biting his lip, as Severus peeled the first towel up, discarded it, pressed another one against the oozing tear.

“Muggle hospital or St. Mungo’s?” asked Severus as he worked.

“Mungo’s,” gasped Harry, trying to breathe through the pain as he’d been taught. “Aurors’ ward. Call Hermione. Number’s in my phone.”

Severus fumbled for Harry’s trousers, found the phone and managed to find Hermione’s number, dial it and explain what happened in a minimum of words. Both she and Ron were there in less than a minute. Ron stared at Severus then glanced around the room as Hermione dropped down beside Harry. She let him squeeze the life out of her hand as he breathed through the pain.

“He’s naked.” It was the first thing out of Ron’s mouth and both Hermione and Severus stared at him.

“I stripped him so I could see the wound, Mr. Weasley,” said Severus dryly. “If you have an objection to seeing his genitalia, you could perhaps drape a towel over him.”

Harry actually guffawed then winced and groaned. “I’m going to kill Browning,” he said. “Fucker! Could have killed me.” The gentle innkeeper seemed to have disappeared within the overwhelming pain and anger.

“You’ve got Snape staying in here, Harry?” Ron was still not quite in the moment.

“Perhaps we can discuss my accommodations at another time, Mr. Weasley,” said Severus. “We need to get Harry to St. Mungo’s.”

“Naked?”

“Ronald! Just pick him up and go!”

Unbelievably, they were back in four hours.

Harry, a notoriously difficult patient, had refused to be admitted. Even though his femur had been shattered by the crowbar and he had to spend twenty-four hours in bed under Skele-gro. Even though the healers wanted to watch his leg carefully for infection. Even though they wouldn’t send him home with the strong pain potions they used at St. Mungo’s.

At just past midnight, Severus looked up from the book he was reading when someone knocked softly on his door. He opened the door to find Hermione Granger standing outside. She blinked then smiled, and he realized that she would not have been accustomed to seeing him wearing cotton sleep trousers, corduroy house shoes and a t-shirt. He motioned her inside, placing the book and the reading glasses he was holding on the bed.

“How is he?” asked Severus as soon as the door was closed.

“Difficult as usual,” answered Hermione. He thought the look she gave him was rather appraising, and wondered if his worry was that apparent. “He’s coming back here tonight. He refused to be admitted and refused to come home with us.”

“They wanted to admit him?” asked Severus.

“The crowbar shattered his femur and he needs to spend twenty-four hours in bed under Skele-gro. They want to keep him there to watch for infection—and to make sure he stays in bed where he belongs.”

“Will they send directions for his care?” Severus looked more interested than worried now, relieved that Harry was well enough to be rash and impetuous.

“Directions, yes. But they won’t send the strong pain potions they would have given him at St. Mungo’s. Ron’s offered to sit up with him tonight but needs to be at work at eight. Could you possibly relieve him then?”

“Tell your husband to go home and get some sleep. I’ll stay with Harry tonight.”

Hermione looked relieved. “Thank you. Ron’s already half wrung out from dealing with him these past few hours. When I said Harry is being difficult as usual, I meant it. He’s not the best patient in the world. He hates being laid up and tries to push his limits. I’ve already threatened to set Molly on him if he misbehaves. Keep that threat in your pocket—it may buy you some good behavior.”

“Oh, I definitely will.” He glanced around the room. “If you’ll allow me to dress, I’ll come down in a few minutes.”

“I’ll leave the door unlocked—you need to go through the butler’s pantry in the kitchen to get in.” Hermione moved toward the door but then turned back toward Severus appraisingly. “You’ve had a few hours. What have you done with that man who attacked Harry?” Severus was surprised at the approval he already saw in her brown eyes. He should have known, given their past, that Hermione was a woman who loved her friend fiercely.

“The police had already arrested him by the time I got to him,” he said. “He’d awoken and had attacked two more people before I got back to the alley to deal with him. They’d like Harry to stop in and register a complaint when he recovers—I underplayed the severity of his wounds. I’ll be at his arraignment armed with a few choice spells as well. I’m considering impotence and chronic flatulence and body odor but am open to other suggestions.”

“I’m sure you’ll have it covered,” said Hermione, smiling. “Just make sure he doesn’t get out, and if he does, you might consider something even more disabling.”

“I’ll keep my eye on him,” answered Severus. “My wizard’s eye.”

Hermione left after a few more words and Severus quickly dressed then sat on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes. He had a moment of déjà vu then, as he reached down to put on a sock, of sitting in exactly this position on exactly this bed, all those years ago, with Harry, on the cusp of manhood, eyes full of life and laughter, settled there between his knees, hands kneading his thighs, inexperienced but eager mouth feasting on his cock.

Harry smiling as he pushed him flat on his back after bringing him off, leaning down to kiss him, rutting against him in his own need.

He had told Severus once, as they walked together one Sunday afternoon through the streets of Amsterdam, that he’d thought he’d forgotten how to smile. A year of hunting Horcruxes. A year of mourning losses and rebuilding what was destroyed. But this year, he had said then, was his to enjoy. Theirs to enjoy.

Severus pulled on his socks, slipped into his shoes. The vision of that Harry, a Harry wrapped up in six weeks that Severus had archived long ago, disappeared as Severus walked downstairs to see a different Harry, a Harry who could definitely hold his own now when it came to life in general…and to Severus Snape.

Severus heard Harry arguing with Ron from the kitchen.

“They said flat on your back, mate. Flat! Not propped up on pillows.”

“That’s ridiculous. I can’t read like this. Can’t see a damn thing.”

“It’s after midnight. You don’t need to read or see. You need to sleep. You’ll be back at St. Mungo’s if that bone doesn’t heal properly. Damn it, Harry! Why do you have to make this so difficult?”

“Because some bigoted fag hater took a piece out of my leg with a crowbar,” answered Harry. “And I’d just had a promising dinner with Severus. We were going back for a drink—in his room! I could be there right now, Ron, instead of flat on my back alone in my own bed. That’s why I’m making this so difficult. You get to go home and cuddle up to your gorgeous wife….”

“Hey! What do you mean ‘gorgeous?’ You’re supposed to be gay—not looking at my wife and thinking she’s gorgeous!”

“Mr. Weasley, I believe I can take it from here.”

Severus had walked quickly through to Harry’s bedroom and stood in the door, watching the cozy little domestic scene before him. “Given the earlier part of your conversation, I seriously doubt that Mr. Potter has designs on your wife. He’s upset and in pain. Give him a bit of leniency.”

Ron looked appropriately chagrined. “Right.” He looked down at Harry.

“Do you want me to get a message to the Headmistress so Pip can come see you?”

“Yeah. That would be good. But bring him Sunday. Give me tomorrow to get through the worst of it.”

“Do you have instructions from St. Mungo’s?” asked Severus, approaching the bed and looking down through narrowed eyes at Harry.

Ron pulled out a roll of parchment from his robe pocket and handed it to Severus without comment. It occurred to Severus then that Ron was the only one who seemed to routinely wear the traditional wizard garb. Severus took the scroll and held onto it without opening it.

“Did they send potions?”

Ron pointed to the dresser. “Over there.” He looked down at Harry. “Behave yourself, mate, or we will send Mum over.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You threaten that one every time.”

Severus frowned. Every time? He glanced over at the dresser, noting the bedpan behind the row of potions.

“I mean it this time. You should be in St. Mungo’s at least for another day or two.”

“Yeah, that’s what they told me, too,” said Harry. He turned his head. “Hi, Severus.”

“Good luck,” said Ron to Severus. He turned on the spot and disappeared, leaving Harry and Severus staring at each other.

“Do not move,” said Severus by way of introduction. He brandished the scroll. “I am going to read this first and then we will talk.” He settled down onto the bedside chair, a surprisingly comfortable wingback, and opened the scroll.

Harry’s eyes were on him the entire time. Severus looked up a time or two, eyes moving down to the lightly haired leg sticking out from below the standard hospital-issue gown or looking critically at Harry’s too-pale face. It took ten minutes to get through everything. He then thoughtfully rolled up the scroll and dropped it unceremoniously on the bedside table and stood.

“You are aware, I assume, that the crowbar shattered your femur?”

“I was aware of that when it happened,” answered Harry. “And definitely by the time you put that stabilizing spell on me.”

Severus was pushing the gown up to check the bandages even as Harry spoke. His upper leg had been shaved. The bandages there were already blood soaked.

“The injury is bleeding again, most likely from the compression during Apparation. You can have another pain potion now, then I’ll change the bandages and you will sleep.” He walked over to the dresser and selected a potions vial, handed it to Harry and watched him drain it without complaint. He then picked a bandage from the pile on the dresser and returned to Harry’s bedside.

“I haven’t ever treated a broken femur,” he said as he used his wand to cut the tape that wrapped around Harry’s leg, holding the packing in place. “It is one of the strongest bones in the body and not often broken. And I haven’t treated battle wounds in fifteen years. You’ll have to bear with me, Harry. I’ve had an uneventful quiet life since our previous liaison.”

Harry bore with him.

He grimaced as the bandages were removed. Endured Severus prodding gently around the wound and cleaning it.

Tolerated the rewrapping.

Put up with the bedpan, though he insisted on banishing the contents himself.

Sighed into sleep as Severus, finally finished, pulled the quilt up around his neck.

In the morning, after a fitful night, Severus made breakfast.

He thanked Merlin he was a wizard. The guests weren’t exactly demanding, but they wanted to chat and to a one asked after Harry. He opened the fridge to discover that Harry used eggs from uncaged hens, milk and cream from a local dairy and thick bacon from a local butcher. A knock on the door at six a.m. turned out to be the delivery of fresh pastries.

He couldn’t find the orange juice but did find plenty of oranges and realized that Harry served fresh-squeezed orange juice. The presence of the juicer on the counter confirmed that.

He was exhausted by nine. He’d slept fitfully on the chair beside Harry’s bed, though he’d transfigured it into a lounge for the night.

He found Harry’s phone again and looked up Eleanor. He called her in, explained what had happened and that Harry would be laid up for a week. Promised her time and a half for pitching in.

Answered Hermione’s call and let her know that Harry had survived the night and no, he hadn’t had to use the Molly threat as of yet.

He had Eleanor make up the Tennyson room as soon as the guests had checked out, then moved his things down. All the other Friday night guests were staying through Sunday so she only had the Headmaster’s Quarters to make up fresh.

At ten thirty, he slipped back into Harry’s room. Harry was sleeping, his breakfast tray on the bed beside him. He’d hardly touched his food but had drained his juice. He obviously knew the trouble Severus had gone through to squeeze those damn oranges.

Severus cleared the tray away then sat down and promptly fell asleep.

At two forty-five he gave Harry another pain potion. At three o’clock, after speaking with Eleanor and convincing her to stay to watch the office until five and making sure that Harry had something to drink and the bedpan nearby, he slipped out the front door and went to have a pint at Hedwig’s.

He left Hedwig’s at four fifteen, checked the map on his phone and headed for The Snowy Owl. The souvenir shop turned out to be half tourist attraction, half clock shop.

An old clockmaker ran the place, filling the front with interesting wood carvings depicting life in the old Norse town of Jorvik where York now stood. There were small plushies for children, post cards, t-shirts and sweets as well. In the back, the clockmaker created custom clocks.

Severus spent an excellent half hour with the old man. He left the shop and headed back to Against the Wall, hands in his pockets, deep in thought.

Harry was grimacing, twisting to reach his calf, when Severus checked in on him as soon as he arrived back.

“You could have left my wand within reach!” he complained as soon as he saw Severus.

“You were told not to perform magic while the bone heals,” said Severus as he adjusted Harry’s single pillow. He hiked up the hospital gown to check the dressing and left the gown draped over Harry’s hips as he used his wand to read his temperature.

“It’s my calf—on the good leg,” said Harry with a moan. “Cramp.” He looked both cross and pitiful as he tried to extend his toes.

“Your friends certainly were right about you being a bad patient,” said Severus as he moved to the other side of the bed, sat down and holding Harry’s foot with both hands, pushed Harry’s toes up toward his shin, easing the cramp immediately. He then used both his hands to begin soothing the sore muscle.

Harry stifled a moan as Severus pressed his thumbs into the calf muscle and massaged.

Severus didn’t comment. He worked his thumbs methodically over the muscle until it was fully relaxed and with it, Harry’s entire leg. Severus continued down to the foot, working the heel, the arch, the pad, the toes.

“God, that’s so much better than a muscle relaxing charm,” sighed Harry, stretching his leg out like a cat toward Severus. “How did you learn to do that?”

“I dated a massage therapist,” answered Severus. He stood, earning a sigh from Harry, and went to fetch Harry’s potions. “I trust you learned some useful things from past lovers?”

Harry downed the potion and shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about his past lovers just now. “They really weren’t that interesting,” he said. He looked up at the clock on his own mantel. “Six more hours? I don’t think I can take it, Severus. I’ll die of boredom. Why don’t you just give me some sleeping potion or something?”

“St. Mungo’s didn’t send a sleeping draught,” said Severus. “And while I am a Potions Master, I don’t believe I brought my spare cauldron and ingredients with me.” He rolled his eyes.

“I’ve got some Muggle meds in the bathroom,” suggested Harry.

“Why don’t we talk instead?” asked Severus, settling down in the comfortable wingback chair again. Harry’s eyes tracked him a bit nervously.

“What about?” asked Harry suspiciously.

“Well, how about the barkeep at Hedwig’s who looks quite a bit like a certain werewolf of our acquaintance?” He watched Harry’s face as he spoke. “Or a clockmaker at The Snowy Owl who could almost double as my father?”

Harry swallowed. “Oh,” he said. He forced a smile. “I can explain that.”

Severus settled back in his chair and smiled. “Go on. I’m all ears.”

And when Harry was all talked out, when he’d acknowledged that he owned Teddy’s Toy Box as well, a toy shop across from the Minster, and The Dirigible Plum, a clothing store outside the walls run by a dreamy blonde who believed in fairies, when he’d admitted that he’d built the enterprises around the individuals he’d stumbled upon and their particular skills and abilities, people who reminded him of loved ones lost or far away, all once part of a magical world he kept now at arm’s length, Severus reached out and brushed his sweat-soaked hair from his tired eyes and traced the faded scar on his forehead.

“You are an intriguing individual, Mr. Potter,” he said. “And what of Mr. Fawkes?”

“Shared a bench with him one day in the park behind the Minster,” said Harry. “He was down on his luck, asked for a handout.”

“Of course. So you found him a job.”

“Eventually, yes. After sharing that bench a few more times. Job lasted longer than that handout would have,” answered Harry. Severus’ hand was still on his head and as it moved down the side of his face, thumb running along the edge of his jaw, he leaned into it, his body seemingly recalling the touch.

“As I said, you are an intriguing individual.” The hand moved off his face, around his neck, fingers and thumbs rubbing the stiff muscles there, soothing them. “Perhaps it wasn’t a mere coincidence that I ended up here on Wednesday.”

Harry opened his eyes. Smiled weakly. “What was it then? Fate?”

“Perhaps.” He glanced at the clock. “Seven o’clock. If you manage to sleep now, I’ll carry you out to the sofa in the living room at midnight and make you a proper dinner.”

Harry nodded and closed his eyes. Severus pulled back his hand and looked at Harry a long moment before he turned toward the door.

“Severus?” Harry’s voice stopped him.

“Yes?”

“Does Charles really remind you of your father?”

“He resembles him strongly. Fortunately, he doesn’t smell of whisky.”

“I never thought of that, actually. He reminded me a lot of you. When I watch him work, watch his long fingers on those tools….”

“Sleep, Harry.”

And Severus closed the door softly behind him.

They spent the wee hours of the morning talking, Harry glad to be upright on the couch, Severus diving with Harry into the details of operating five businesses and discovering that the profits of each were donated to Harry’s favorite causes—a cure for lycanthropy, scholarship funds, orphanages. Harry slept several hours on the sofa while Severus slept in his bed. On Sunday, Severus once again took care of breakfast and helped Harry out to the Gathering Area to bid farewell to the departing guests while he took care of checking them out and printing up receipts.

Harry called in Kreacher and Winky to make up the rooms for the incoming guests and Severus went out for supplies.

He made Harry rest for a couple hours in the afternoon then brought Indian take-away home for both of them. They’d just finished eating when Ron stepped out of the Floo, followed closely by a boy, an adolescent turned teenager at that awkward gangly stage, who could only be Harry’s son. He had auburn hair and freckles and was already nearly as tall as Harry.

The boy stepped tentatively toward his father.

“Dad?” His voice wavered slightly.

Harry put down the glass he was holding and held out his hand, smiling broadly at his son. “Pip!”

The boy glanced at Severus, who was sitting in an armchair beside the sofa, then moved quickly forward. Harry wrapped his arms around him and the boy returned the hug fiercely. “What happened? Uncle Ron said you hurt your leg and wouldn’t stay in St. Mungo’s! He was really grumbly about it. Is it because of Phillip? They wouldn’t let him near you, you know.”

“Your step-father has nothing to do with it,” assured Harry. “Besides, he works on the Maternity Ward and I haven’t been there for fourteen years!” He mussed his son’s hair. “I happen to hate hospitals, as you well know.” He scooted so that the boy could sit on the edge of the sofa in front of him, covering a wince as the boy’s body brushed his injured leg.

“What happened, anyway?” repeated Pip. He glanced again at Severus, who nodded at him politely.

“Alistair Browning,” answered Harry. “He went after me with a crowbar this time. Hit me in the thigh.”

“A crowbar!” Pip’s face took on an expression somewhere between angry and horrified. “I told you to stay away from him,” he exclaimed. His face was getting red behind his freckles. “He’s completely barmy.”

“He’s in jail now,” assured Harry. “He won’t be bothering me again for a long time.”

Severus stood up as they talked.

“If you don’t need me, I’ll go out now for my walk,” he said.

Harry turned his attention to Severus. “Of course, go ahead. I’ll be fine here with Pip.” He turned back to his son. “Pip, I’m sorry I haven’t introduced you. This is Severus Snape.”

Pip stared at Severus, comprehension dawning. He looked back at his father, a teasing smile lighting up his face.

“You’re going out with a Slytherin?”

Severus’ eyes widened, showing his surprise at the boy’s reaction. Harry immediately went into lecture mode, reminding his son never to judge a person by the House in which they were placed. But behind that gentle chiding, Harry was smiling. And he never denied that he was seeing Severus.

Severus and Pip shook hands, the boy turning quite polite after that little slip.

“Your portrait is in the Headmistress’ office,” he said.

“I hope you don’t find yourself there too often,” responded Severus.

“Not too often,” answered Pip, glancing at his father.

Severus left them together and spent a pleasant hour in a pub while Harry finished his visit with his son. Late that evening, he let Harry test his weight on the leg, then helped him to the loo, insisting that a shower wait until the following day when his leg could bear the weight better.

That night, after Severus settled Harry in bed, he walked around to the other side and sat down. Harry silently watched him remove his shoes and socks, shirt and trousers, leaving him in a plain white t-shirt and a pair of navy boxers. Severus stood and looked at the empty spot next to Harry.

Harry held up the cover in invitation.

They lay there together quietly for a few minutes, then Harry laughed, and Severus chuckled. Harry eased up carefully on his elbows and maneuvered himself over on his side. He winced against the dull throb of pain but scooted himself closer to Severus, resting his head on the other man’s shoulder.

“You’re softer than you used to be,” he murmured.

“And you’re heavier,” returned Severus. He worked one arm around Harry’s shoulder and, repeating a gesture he had made countless times in those short weeks they had spent together, kissed the top of Harry’s head.

“You smell good,” said Harry. He rested a hand on Severus’ abdomen then worked it under the t-shirt, caressing the band of skin just above the waistband of his boxers.

Severus caught Harry’s hand in his own and squeezed it, stopping its back and forth play.

“Sleep,” he murmured. “You’re not well yet.”

Harry closed his eyes. “Not yet,” he agreed. “But I will be.”

He fell asleep soon after, hand on Severus’ waist, head resting on his upper arm and shoulder. For Severus, however, sleep was a long time coming. He thought about age, and the passing of years. How he had mellowed since leaving Hogwarts. He remembered his first night with Harry Potter all those years ago and could not help but compare it to this night, this night of steady and slow breathing, of the most minimal touch of skin on skin, the barest hint of cuddling.

He was then struck by the thought that he was in Harry Potter’s bed. Six weeks all those years ago, forty-two days, dozens of different sexual encounters, and none of them, not one, in Harry’s bed.

He understood who had the upper hand in this relationship, if indeed it could be called a relationship, if indeed it did develop into one.

And it was not Severus Snape. Not this time.

“Hey, Severus,” whispered Harry.

Severus groaned and buried his face in his pillow.

“I know you’re not a morning person but someone’s got to get up in an hour to start breakfast.” Harry’s hand caressed Severus’ back, moved under his shirt, rubbed between his shoulder blades. Severus’ groan morphed into a moan as the talented hand continued to knead his back.

“I need to use the loo,” Harry whispered, mouth close to Severus’ ear. “I’ll give it a go by myself if you’re too tired to help.”

Severus rolled onto his side facing Harry. “I’m not too tired,” he said, sounding very tired indeed. He sat up and blinked then rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he fumbled with the sheet, got out of bed and came around to Harry’s side, extending a hand.

Harry, for his part, was able to stand without too much pain and limp into the loo, leaning against Severus. Severus checked the dressing and the flesh around the wound when Harry was back in bed then used the loo himself and gratefully crawled back between the sheets for another thirty minutes.

Severus let Harry help with breakfast—seated on a stool at the island counter in the kitchen with his leg propped up on a chair. Severus himself served as waiter, but Harry called in the house-elves to dispatch the dishes.

“How did it get to be Monday already?” asked Harry during the cozy sleepy time between lunch and tea. He was in Severus-imposed rest mode, stretched out on the sofa. His leg was uncovered and he was practicing flexing and arching his foot, following the directions Severus had read to him from the paperwork sent home with him from St. Mungo’s.

Severus, who was standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, hands folded across his chest, perusing the very surprising titles, turned toward him.

“I had planned to check out at noon today,” he said by way of answer.

“Yet here you are,” said Harry with a smile.

“Indeed. Here I am.”

“Do you need to get back?”

“In an hour or two. No need to bother with Muggle transportation now, is there? He held up a book he’d pulled from the shelf. “Retail management? How did you find time to take Uni classes?”

“Those could just be books I bought to read up on things,” said Harry, settling back into the three pillows Severus had arranged for him in the crook of the sofa.

“They could be but they are not,” said Severus. He replaced the book and ran his finger along an entire line of textbooks, including some English Literature and Mathematics texts.

“I went to school a solid year before we opened this place,” said Harry. “Evening classes, of course. I’ve just been dabbling since.”

Severus picked up the Riverside Shakespeare. “Dabbling in Shakespeare?”

“I’m not totally about Quidditch moves and shield spells, I’ll have you know.” He watched Severus’ eyes move up a shelf and scan the titles there. “Come here, Severus.” His voice held a promise.

Harry watched Severus carefully replace the large Shakespeare tome and walk over to the sofa. He stopped beside Harry and stared down. Harry pushed himself back against the cushions and took Severus’ hand. “There’s room here to sit.”

When he obeyed the implied request, sitting down so that his hip was even with Harry’s own, much as Pip had sat the day before, pressing back comfortably against it, Harry reached up and linked his hands around Severus’ neck, pulling him down toward him.

“I’ve been wanting to do this,” he said as he pressed his mouth against Severus’, tasting the long-remembered taste, moving lips and tongue, opening his mouth to Severus as one of Severus’ hands settled on the pillow at the juncture of his neck and shoulder and the other came up behind his head, tangling in his hair and kneading his scalp.

“You’ve learned the finesse of kissing,” said Severus softly as he moved his mouth from Harry’s lips to his jaw line. “And you’ve developed quite a beard as well.” He kissed Harry’s ear, scraping his own cheek against Harry’s, feeling the satisfying scrape of stubble on stubble, taking the lobe into his mouth and laving it, biting it gently, releasing it to move along the hollow of his neck.

“I’ve learned more than just kissing,” breathed Harry.

“Have you?” said Severus. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Harry’s neck and slowly sat up.

“Doesn’t sound like we’re moving this directly to the bedroom then,” said Harry with a tired smile.

“It is after two already. And you are still weak.”

Harry reached up and pushed a lock of lanky hair behind Severus’ ear.

“But if we had all day?” he asked. “And full use of my leg?”

“If we had all day—and you had full use of that leg—I think I’d like to climb the Minster tower with you to visit Mr. Fawkes,” said Severus with a smile. “Or walk the town wall, or take the leftover breakfast pastries down to the river to feed those raucous swans.”

Harry smiled, though the smile seemed a trifle forced. He rallied.

“Thanks for everything you did, Severus. I’m expecting a magnificent review after this, you know.”

“I’ll have to review my notes, put everything in order,” teased Severus.

“Of course,” said Harry. He closed his eyes. “Well, you know where to find me if you have any more questions.”

Severus squeezed his hand as he stood, then bent to kiss the corner of Harry’s mouth.

“I do,” he said. “I certainly do.”

By Wednesday, he’d not heard anything from Severus. He was still limping slightly, but the pain was nearly gone. He slid back into the routine of the inn and rested up, excused from work at the Ministry until the following Monday.

On Thursday he received a formal letter from Europe’s Best B&Bs, informing him that Against the Wall would be included in the next edition of the publication. The letter was from Amy Wallis, Executive Editor, and didn’t mention Ellis Keyes. He and Hermione celebrated by making the decision to convert the attic space into a fourth special room. Hermione wanted to call it the Library. Harry argued that the smell of books did very little to turn him on.

He couldn’t help but wonder about Severus, about the time they had spent together. He wasn’t exactly sad, and he certainly wasn’t depressed, but he was melancholic, thinking about the promise in that kiss, and of how right it had felt to share a bed and sleep with his head pillowed on the other man’s arm.

He imagined that Severus, with time to think, had decided against entangling himself again. They had made no promises, after all. Harry did not allow the melancholy to get the best of him.

On Friday morning, after checking out four of the five rooms on the main floor, he began filling out the registration forms for the guests expected that evening. He turned to that day’s page in the registration book and took out a stack of blank check-in forms from below the counter. He ran his finger down the list of guests who had made reservations. His finger stopped near the bottom, resting on a name written in neat but spiky handwriting. Familiar handwriting. Handwriting he knew.

Severus Snape.

And he’d requested the Seer’s Chambers.

The name had been there all week.

Harry smiled and idly traced the name with his thumb.

On Friday afternoon, at three thirty, Severus Snape showed up on the doorstep.

Ellis Keyes had carried a suitcase and a carrier bag. Severus Snape had a small duffel.

Ellis had been well-dressed and professionally groomed. Severus Snape wore tight, black jeans, Gucci loafers and a close-fitting white button-down with the cuffs unbuttoned. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in several days. He smelled like he’d been walking through the Forbidden Forest.

Harry showed him up to his room. He walked ahead of him, carrying the duffel, limp nearly gone.

His hand shook as he inserted the key in the lock. Severus’ hand descended over his and held it steady.

“Why this room?” asked Harry softly before he opened the door. Severus was leaning into him from behind, hand on his hip.

“Neutral territory,” said Severus, his hand gripping Harry’s hip, sliding into the front pocket of his jeans. “I’d like us to start off as equals this time. And this room is nothing at all like my room, or like yours.”

Harry rested his head against the wooden door before him.

“This room has a great bath,” he breathed.

“I remember,” said Severus. “We’ll be needing it.”

Harry pushed open the door and stepped into the room, turning into Severus’ arms just as Severus grabbed him by the shoulders and pressed him against the door. They ended up on the bed seconds later, grappling and rolling, kissing and laughing, The frantic scrambling subsided after a few minutes and they lay together, on their sides, front to front, arms wrapped around the other’s body, legs intertwined, kissing lips and throat, jaw and neck, slowing down, taking time to savor.

“I got the idea you wanted to take this slow,” Harry said, hands sliding over the soft fabric of Severus’ shirt.

“We’ll take it slow,” murmured Severus. “Should we lie here and cuddle and talk about our week?”

“Talk when we have this between us?” asked Harry, working one hand under the waistband of Severus’ jeans and brushing against his straining cock.

“Ignore it,” said Severus with a groan.

“Ignore THAT?” responded Harry.

“You’re obsessed with it,” said Severus, grabbing Harry’s hands and pressing a kiss to his palm.

“I admit it—I am…was…”

“What? You don’t like it anymore?” teased Severus. He rolled to the side, upsetting Harry, and reversed their positions.

“I didn’t say that!” protested Harry, reaching up to stroke the cock in question through the fabric of Severus’ jeans.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this but I want this to be about more than my cock.” Severus ground down instinctively as he spoke and Harry grinned. He grazed his hand over the prominent bulge. “I’ve got to have tea ready in the Gathering Area in ten minutes, Severus,” he said softly, his hand still caressing Severus through his jeans.

Severus rolled off of him with a groan and Harry stood up and adjusted his clothing, then leaned down and gave him an upside-down kiss while Severus reached up and caressed his neck.

“Go. I’ll be down in a bit.”

“Don’t use all the hot water,” said Harry from the door, just before he disappeared out into the corridor.

They did take it slowly—that evening.

A stroll along the river, dropping pieces of leftover biscuits and scones for the ducks and swans.

Dinner at Harry’s favorite restaurant, on the terrace overlooking the river.

A walk on the tower wall behind the Minster, holding hands.

Severus on his knees in that magnificent shower, swallowing Harry’s cock while the water streamed over his back and neck and shoulders, his hands squeezing Harry’s arse while Harry held on to the shower head above him with one hand and the bar on the soap dish with the other.

Harry returning the favor on the luxurious bed later that evening, finally tasting that cock he’d dreamed of, head buried between Severus’ thighs as Severus rested against four plump pillows, legs spread and knees bent, hands in Harry’s hair, head thrown back, looking up into the gauzy canopy as Harry’s mouth worked over him, one hand gripping the base of his cock, squeezing it rhythmically as he worked his mouth and lips and tongue over the head, the other hand skirting over Severus’ crease, teasing, tempting.

Their eyes met before he came.

Severus’ eyes watched the head of messy, tangled dark hair, mesmerized by how it moved up and down slowly on his cock. He soaked in the feeling of those lips on his flesh, soft and warm, the firm, consistent pressure, coaxing him a fractional step higher with every pull. He put a finger out, stroked it over Harry’s cheek and Harry lifted his eyes, green eyes dark with concentration, lost in the act, and stared at him, smiled around his cock as Severus grasped his head, tangled his fingers in that wild black hair, moaned his name, and came. Pulsed into that ardent mouth, eyes closed, head thrown back. Soaring in spirals, descending on a breeze of whispers. ”Severus…Severus.”

}-{

Harry went to work at the Ministry on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.

He had a full house Wednesday and Thursday nights, and made pancakes on Friday morning.

When Severus walked in the door at three thirty on Friday, Harry took his bag and asked him to help with tea. Severus entertained a family from Belgium and Harry listened to him speak to them in French, and suddenly and fervently wished that he could speak French too, that those intriguing sounds, like muffled voices behind thin walls, were made for him.

They climbed the Minster tower in the morning, 275 stairs, and looked out over the city, and over the countryside beyond, Severus standing behind Harry, his arms around his stomach, chin on his shoulder. He pointed in the direction of his home and Harry pretended to strain to see it, and asked if he was happy there. “I thought I was,” answered Severus.

When they fell into bed that night, in Harry’s room, for he had rented out the one Severus reserved to a last-minute guest, they were relaxed and warm, having shared a bottle of good wine between them after a hearty dinner. Languid kisses, soft caresses became something more fevered, more desperate, and in the end it was Severus who was arranging Harry, face up, hips canted on pillows, Harry’s hands gripping the headboard while Severus worked him with his mouth and tongue and hands and fingers, ignoring his pleas for more and faster and harder, damn it!, taking his time, loving the body before him that was older, more wiry, bearing more scars than had its teenage version. A body that knew what it wanted, but more than that knew who it wanted. Harry was practically sobbing with need when Severus’ cock slid down his crease, teasing him, when it pushed into him at last, slowly, the burn, the stretch, vivid reminders of those first times all those years ago. Severus pulled out before he was seated, pushing back in again slowly, deeper this time, then out again, finally, finally filling him completely. Holding his hips, caressing hipbones with calloused thumbs, panting, holding back, groaning with the need to move, to claim, to fill. Harry, reaching down with one hand for his own cock, sliding his hand around its length as Severus’ hand moved on top of his and they pulled together as Severus slid his cock out and thrust forward again. Overpowering tightness, exquisite sensation, slowly now, a reunion rather than a claiming, a slow-motion tango. A giving. A receiving.

Harry bit his bottom lip, pushing himself to a higher plateau, letting Severus’ hand over his own be the guide, set the pace. The burst of pleasure within him as Severus grazed his prostate dropped a meteor shower of stars over his vision, a flare of electric sparks up his limbs.

They came nearly together, Severus first and Harry a moment later, clenching and pulsing, spent but not exhausted, the union no frantic grope against the wall of Severus’ quarters, no punishing claiming over his office desk. There was no dirty talk, almost no talk at all. The prevalent sound during their coupling had been their ragged breathing, their moaning, their thumping hearts. So different than those first times, the afterglow so much more intense as they lay wrapped in each other’s arms, Harry tracing the scars on Severus’ neck with a light finger, Severus placing a kiss on his shoulder, his chin, his ear.

They each kept their homes, homes they were attached to, gradually adapting them for the presence of the other. A den for Severus, cozy and warm, with a spot for his laptop. A white cat with black tail and feet and a spot on its ear. A cushion in a window seat for the cat. Loose leaf tea for Severus, Earl Grey, organic. A snowy owl for Harry, a place for his books, an upright piano in the old parlor, easy sheet music from a musty old store in London. Extra room in the closets, firmer pillows for the bed, wizard space in Harry’s Muggle medicine cabinet for the potions vials that replaced the caplets and pills. A broom closet at the manor. A bedroom for Pip.

Severus spent time with the clock maker, talking with him in his shop, watching him work on delicate gears and custom faces, so much more like himself than his father. He presented Harry with a custom clock for his birthday, patterned after a German cuckoo, one hand a pen wrought of fine filigree, the other a narrow sword, forever challenging each other as they chased around the face. Which was mightier indeed? Harry would say it was Severus’ pen, with its biting sarcasm, its ability to build and destroy. Severus would say it was Harry’s wand, the sword of a wizard, his weapon of choice. Pip, if you could tear him away from Severus’ laptop when they were in York or find him on the manor as he soared above the estate on his broom, would say his favorite part of the clock was the cuckoo, the little white owl that popped out from behind the swinging door on the hours and the halves, counting the hours with charming hoots that sounded nothing like the scratchy bark of a snowy owl: sleepy long hoots in the morning, bright cheery hoots in the afternoon, soft melancholic hoots after the sun went down.

In time the B&B became an inn, with full-time staffers besides Harry, managing to keep all its charm and its undercurrent of secret fantasy. Harry and Severus took up residence above The Snowy Owl. Harry traveled sometimes now with Severus, his partner and equal, his Ministry job a thing of the past as he filled his time with classes and studies, intent on that business degree at last. Severus, for his part, kept fit with a morning climb to the top of the Minster Tower all the days he spent in York. He wrote in the afternoons, working on a novel now, a semi-autobiographical work about a stained and tarnished man, turned on his head by a game of love.

Ron and Hermione built their house the year Rose started at Hogwarts, and while Harry spent more than adequate time on the Quidditch Pitch there, he didn’t insist on having his own room.

“Would you like to put up a tree when we get back to the manor?” Harry looked up from his desk in their home over The Snowy Owl. Severus sat in a wingback chair, feet on an ottoman, laptop resting on his legs as he stared out the window into the snow-filled street. Harry could see him in profile, loved watching his long fingers dance over the keyboard.

“I’m fond of Christmas trees,” said Harry. “But since we have one here, we can do without one at the manor if you’d like. Pip won’t be there ‘til Boxing Day. He’ll be all Christmas’d out by that time, and what with the New Year’s Eve plans…”

“I’d like a tree there,” said Severus, still staring out the window. “I’ve never bothered to put one up and this year, it just seems…appropriate.”

Harry smiled. He looked down at his hand, twisted the gold band inset with a hundred tiny emeralds and engraved with runes. “I know I’ve said this before Severus, but we could do this in the Muggle world instead, go to the Caribbean—Aruba.”

“Or we could stay here, close to family and friends, and have a traditional wizarding ceremony.”

“You’ve never struck me as exactly traditional,” said Harry. He stood up and walked over behind Severus’ chair, reading over his shoulders as he worked his hands over Severus’ neck, down to his shoulders, kneading the muscles there as Severus groaned appreciatively.

“The wizarding world does do some things right,” said Severus rather softly. “Its ceremonies are complex and meaningful, rich with tradition and alive with magic.”

“You really don’t mind the publicity, then?” asked Harry. “The ceremony can be kept private but the bonds themselves can’t.”

“Why would I not want the magical world to know that I was the one who finally captured Harry Potter’s heart, hmm?” He tilted his head to allow Harry better access to his right shoulder but otherwise kept his fingers on the keyboard, typing away.

“Hey! You can’t kill Cecil’s albino parrot! You know it means the world to him!” Harry leaned down to get a closer look at the monitor.

“I’m the author. I can do what I want. The parrot needs to die so young Cecil can understand how fleeting life is. It also prepares him for the deaths to come.”

Harry, accustomed now to Severus’ ways, gave one last squeeze to Severus’ shoulders, leaned down and kissed his cheek.

“Fine. But I’m blowing up Professor Tate’s chemistry lab in that novel I’m going to write.”

“You do that.”

Harry shook his head and returned to his desk, opening up the Marketing textbook on it and sighing as he immersed himself once more in the world of Uni classes.

And Severus smiled as he completed a paragraph, leaving Cecil chasing his own doppelganger down Tottenham Court Road.

He idly twisted his own ring, its one hundred tiny rubies worked into runes of Harry’s choosing. As Muggle as their ordinary lives may have become, they were, at heart, wizards. As if to remind them of that fact, the clock on the wall clicked, the little door opened and the snowy owl launched itself off its perch and flew around the room, hooting four times as she flew then returning to her little platform and disappearing inside the clock. That little charm had been added by Severus several months after the clock had been gifted and hung on the wall and Harry somehow managed to look a bit wistful every time the tiny bird circled the room.

“Tea time,” said Harry. “Kreacher!”

Kreacher popped in, placed the tea tray on Harry’s desk, bowed low and popped out again. Harry prepared his own tea and Severus’, then walked toward Severus’ chair. Severus kicked the ottoman out of the way, closed his laptop and placed it on the side table. He opened his knees as Harry knelt down in front of him, accepting his tea cup and taking a drink as he and Harry locked eyes. He unzipped his trousers and casually removed his already semi-hard cock as he watched Harry take a long drink of tea and swish it around in his mouth then swallow. Another long drink. A third.

Severus placed his teacup down gently beside his laptop, settled back into his chair and sighed as Harry’s hot mouth descended on his cock. He and Harry had established some lovely rituals together over the past year and a half. This was one of his favorites, no matter if it was his turn or Harry’s to sit in the chair. It was adoration pure and simple, care giving in its most prurient form. He sometimes didn’t know what he enjoyed more—the feel of Harry’s lips and mouth and tongue on his cock or performing the act itself on Harry, feeling his hands in his hair, hearing those throaty groans, the rapid breathing, his name hissed out from that grown-up mouth.

His hands worked themselves into Harry’s hair as his lover’s warm hand cupped his bollocks, rolling them as he licked the underside of his cock then worked his mouth up to suck the crown. He groaned and pressed up and forward, pushing his cock into Harry’s mouth, pressing against the back of his throat, gripping his hair, moaning as Harry took him in deeper, thrusting in time with Harry’s sucks, all intelligent thought escaping him as raw feeling took over, pushing him upward toward a precipice so high he could never reach it on his own.

He grunted out his release moments later, sighing as Harry tucked him away then picked up his teacup and drained the rest of it, bending down then to kiss him, straddling him in the chair as they snogged like teenagers, tasting himself, and Harry, and the Earl Grey. A flavor all their own, brewed in the heat of Harry’s mouth.

A life of their own, straddling worlds both magical and Muggle.

Severus laced his fingers with Harry’s as they rested their foreheads together.

“More tea, Severus?” asked Harry, pushing a stray lock of lanky black hair behind a perfect shell of an ear.

“Of course,” said Severus. And he cupped Harry’s face and kissed him again.

Tea time indeed.

Fin