-Harry and Severus-

Harry loved Shell Cottage in the summertime. He loved the sun on his back, the feel of the cool water enveloping him when he floated in the ocean, the gentle sway of the hammock on the sun porch. He loved the wildflowers, gently tamed into uneven beds in the front garden, and the shells and driftwood that washed up on the narrow stretch of sand every morning. Harry loved the seagulls that dropped shellfish on the rocks and the dull-colored fish that darted in the shallow water near the shore.

In the summertime, Harry loved the gentle, warm breezes that warmed his bare back, spreading the sunshine over his skin like a blanket. He loved the feel of the sand between his toes, the evening beach fire warming his legs and the way the fire-roasted jacket potatoes almost but not quite burned the pads of his fingers.

And now, Harry loved Shell Cottage in the wintertime. The sun porch still caught the winter sun but was warmed by a clever charm Minerva cast on the baseboards that made them radiate heat, a heat he could practically see as it came up in waves to push the chilly air up into the rafters. The wind from the north shook the little house, and Harry loved the sound of the old wood creaking and the whistling from the clay roof tiles as the wind found grooves and flaws and forced its way through. The winter had made the shore forlorn and lonely, barren against a background of leafless trees and dusty brown grass.

The best part of Shell Cottage in the summer was the sun porch, with its windows on three sides, its comfortable lounge chairs and its creaky hammock. The best part of Shell Cottage in the winter was the cozy sitting room with its shelves of ancient books, its oil lamps with glass chimneys so old they waved with blown-in impurities, its oversized fireplace invitingly warm and its upholstered sofa and chairs now draped with crocheted afghans and warm fleece throws which Harry tucked around himself when he snuggled up with MacBeth. The Christmas tree in the corner reached to the low ceiling and was sparsely decorated with some baubles that Minerva had brought and old fashioned candles Harry had fastened one by one to the branches, using melted wax and a handy sticking charm. The best part of the tree was how it cast flickering shadows in the evening when the candles were lit, and Harry and Severus settled down to a game of chess, Harry nearly heady from the fresh scent of pine and the foreign but welcome feeling of home.

They'd arrived at Shell Cottage by floo late on Christmas Eve after an afternoon spent at the Burrow and an early exchange of presents there. After the Minister of Magic himself had turned up at the Burrow to see Harry two days before Christmas, and Harry had unabashedly and very determinedly professed his allegiance to Albus Dumbledore, they'd changed their plans and decided to leave the Burrow Christmas Eve instead of Christmas Day. Severus had returned to Hogwarts after the impromptu night spent sleeping on Ron's bed, returning on Christmas Eve with a bottle of Mead for Molly and Arthur and a board game for the rest of the family. Harry had taught them all to play Monopoly, Wizarding Britain Edition, and they'd gone at it with gusto. Fred and George argued vehemently over the pewter pieces used as markers, each of them claiming the Knight Bus, while Ginny grabbed the miniature cauldron and Ron the tiny broomstick. Bill, Fleur and Charlie had even consented to play, though Charlie spent a lot of time in Azkaban while Fleur took over an entire side of the board, as proprietress of all of Diagon Alley. Ginny claimed both Hogsmeade and King's Cross Station and Harry had the luck of the roll and put his roots down in Hogsmeade and bought both Hogwarts and Honeyduke's, though Fleur refused to sell him Zonko's.

After finishing the game, they ate a hearty dinner and Harry was feeling pleasantly full and sleepy when Severus challenged Ron to a game of chess.

Ron looked like he was going to throw up.

An hour later, as Ginny and Harry sat in front of the fire with Fred and George, they were still at it.

At 8:30, two hours into the game, Ron was sweating so hard he looked like he was going to pass out.

By 9:15, Harry was dozing on the couch, his head comfortably pillowed on Ginny's shoulder, when Ron walked into the room, a stunned look on his face, and whispered "I won."

At 9:30, Ginny handed her new hula hoop to Severus, who was glaring daggers at Harry as if he were somehow responsible for Severus being in this predicament.

At 9:35, they were all still watching Severus do the hula hoop. He hadn't let the ring drop even once and had managed to work the thing from low on his hips to high on his chest and back down again.

At 9:40 they declared Severus hula hoop king and Harry talked Ron into trying it next to "soften the blow of losing at chess" for Severus. It was one of the few times Harry had ever heard Severus laugh so openly. He didn't laugh loudly, or deeply, but Harry watched his face as Ron contorted his entire body around the hoop, gyrating his hips and thrusting out his pelvis. Crinkly laugh lines appeared around Severus' eyes first, then his mouth began to twitch and his shoulders to shake until he was wiping tears out of his eyes, declaring that it was worth losing at chess to see Ron do the hula hoop.

Harry hugged everyone goodbye in the Weasley sitting room, wishing all a Happy Christmas, and managing to hug Ginny an extra time before dropping the floo powder in the fire, pulling in his elbows and reappearing in the snug parlor with the fresh pine tree. He'd added the candles before falling asleep on the sofa and slept soundly through the night tucked in tightly with a tartan fleece throw and a purple afghan. When he opened his eyes the next morning, the first thing he noticed was Severus, sleeping in the plush chair across from the couch, a cooling cup of tea on the table before him and one of the afghans draped loosely over his lap.

The sight transported him back four days, to the Burrow, when he woke up in Ron's bedroom the morning after returning from Hogwarts and sat on his cot for 30 minutes, a stupid smile on his face, watching Severus sleep on the bed across from him. He'd heard Snape's distinctive sibilant breathing when he woke up and had wondered where he was, and then, after he opened his eyes to find himself staring at the distinctive walls of Ron's upstairs room at the Burrow, had groggily turned over to see what was wrong with Ron. He'd groped for his glasses, double-checked what he thought he saw, then eased himself up to a sitting position on his cot….and waited.

Severus slept on his back, arm flung over his forehead and eyes, the crook of his arm and his elbow framing his nose. His good leather boots sat on the floor next to the bed, placed neatly side by side, and Ron's Chudley Cannon orange comforter covered him from feet to shoulders. Harry watched and waited. He knew the professor must be tired and in need of a good night's sleep, though he wondered what time he'd arrived, and whether Ron had already been in bed and had had to be ousted to give Severus a place to sleep. He had ample time to determine that Ron's bed, though adequate for Ron, was probably just as lumpy as Harry's fold-up cot and decidedly shorter than the grand four-posters at Hogwarts.

He wondered if Ron had drooled on the pillow sham. How could he not have? Was Snape's head resting on Ron's dried drool?

Harry's eyes drifted up to the Quidditch posters hung on the slanted dormer ceiling above the bed. For once, the Cannons weren't zipping in and out of the poster. In fact, the poster looked more like a Muggle sports poster than anything else and the beaters had all but disappeared from view.

He glanced at the door. Did all the Weasley's know that Snape was in here? Had Ron willingly given up his bed? Did they think Snape was here because he was worried about Harry….or because Harry was worried about him?

"Happy Christmas," said Harry a few minutes later after he had made fresh tea for both of them and brought the two mugs back into the living room. He caught sight of the Christmas tree as he sat down. Gift-wrapped presents were piled up underneath it.

Severus opened his eyes as the mantle clock struck eight.

Minerva arrived precisely at 9, bearing an armload of presents and a bag of Christmas crackers. Harry was sitting on the floor next to the tree, sorting out presents into piles and keeping an eye on the window next to the front door. Severus had pulled his armchair around to face the fireplace and the tree. He'd stoked the fire the old-fashioned way and seemed content to absorb its warmth and sip on his third cup of tea.

Minerva seemed delighted with a very old and dusty bottle of scotch that Severus handed her after tying a discarded ribbon around its neck. She perched the red tam from Harry on her head and laughed outright at the catnip mice he'd given her as well along with a selection of fine teas and quite excellent Scottish shortbread.

Severus, too, received a selection of teas Harry had asked Hermione's parents to buy—Muggle teas with ingredients that promoted relaxation, calmness, serenity and revival. Instead of shortbread, Harry had purchased the rather plain digestives he seemed to prefer. At 10 a.m., almost precisely on the dot, at least according to Harry and Hagrid's plan, MacKenize arrived with a letter tied to his leg, a letter addressed to Severus in Harry's handwriting, along with a small parcel from Hagrid—rock cakes, of course.

And thus Mackenzie became Severus' owl, and he stroked her thoughtfully as he watched Harry open his own presents. His new owl perched calmly on the edge of the sofa table, gratefully nibbling a lemon and rhubarb digestive, and Severus found himself a bit choked up that he had a familiar, and that he had Harry.

Harry in turn opened gifts from his friends at Hogwarts and then set in on the pile from Minerva and Severus. The highlight was a fur-lined cloak, sturdy and warm, yet finely made, a cloak with interior pockets for wands and potion vials and galleons, sickles and knuts.

And of course there were books—a handy one on the psychology of Animagus transformation from Minerva, his own copy of Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, Wizarding Edition (who knew that when Albus Dumbledore said to Harry "It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities," that he didn't make that saying up on the spot but was first credited as saying it immediately after he defeated Grindelwald?), and a slightly brittle copy of Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs that entertained Harry into the wee hours of the morning when he really should have been sleeping. Minerva gifted him with Honeyduke's chocolate and Severus with a black leather journal that very slightly resembled the diary he had destroyed during his second year in the Chamber of Secrets, but unlike that particular tome, this one had his initials inscribed on the spine and it didn't talk back at him when he wrote in it.

Dobby appeared at eleven bearing all the essentials for Christmas dinner, and Harry pulled the first cracker with him. Dobby held up a red and green baby's bonnet which he put on immediately, flattening his large ears against his head, peering out with his large round eyes and managing to look like a lost puppy. With Dobby claiming the baby bonnet, Harry was left with a toy that looked quite a bit like a Muggle Slinky, but that didn't require stairs to be put in motion. Dobby squealed as the Slinky started moving across the level floor, end over end, then began to make its way up the stairs. Severus and Minerva pulled the next Christmas cracker. Severus gamely placed the black top hat on his head. It was a bit too large and slipped down to just over his eyebrows, making him look like a little boy playing at dress-up. Minerva came away with the toy—a set of gobstones which appeared to be made of polished beach pebbles. She immediately handed them over to Harry, who poured them out in his hand, remembering summer days digging for shellfish.

Minerva stayed for Christmas dinner, and Severus poured goblets of wine for all, including Harry, and they toasted each other over the goose and potatoes and stuffing and finished off with pie and ice cream. Harry fell asleep on the couch afterwards, his stomach full, his mind peacefully blank. The house was shuddering in the wind and the flames in the oil lamps flickered as the wind pushed down the floo.

Harry dreamed.

He was a small boy, and it was Christmas, and he was in the Dursley's living room, very early in the morning, before anyone was awake, not even Aunt Petunia. He was combing carefully through the gaily wrapped gifts, checking the nametags, looking for something, anything, for Harry. At the back, pushed up against the wall, he found his gift, triangular in shape, flat and narrow. He placed it on his lap and opened it, taking out the metal coat hanger and holding on to it as he watched the clock on the wall, watched the minute hand as it moved toward the 12, holding it tightly as the hour changed and the hook grabbed him behind his navel and he disappeared in a swirl of colors and landed in a house, a house with stone walls and stone floors and a big fireplace and colorful afghans and warm fleece throws. He looked down at his feet, no longer cold and bare, covered now in sensible brown slippers with woolen linings. No one was in the small, warm room save a bespectacled cat sleeping on the end of the sofa. "Hullo cat" said Harry and the cat looked up at him, winked, then laid its head back down. A Christmas tree popped into the corner opposite the fireplace as Harry turned to take in the room, decorated with silver seashells and glittering pebbles, lit with mysterious lights that flickered like silver fish schooling together in the ocean shallows. Little Harry dropped the hanger and it clattered on the stone floor. The cat looked up, stared at the boy, then relaxed again on the sofa as the boy, transfixed by the glittering tree, approached it cautiously. Presents appeared as he approached, filling in all the gaps beneath the tree, wrapped in boxes of silver and gold and unwrapped with great red ribbons around a three-wheeler with a silver horn and a blue and green hula hoop and a gallon-sized cauldron with an iridescent glass stirring rod. He took a step closer and still no one appeared. Another step. A pair of warm leather boots. A cape lined with rabbit fur. An expandable book bag. A set of books. Children's Wizarding Heroes. A slinky that climbs up stairs. Gobstones made of ocean pebbles. A plate of cookies, still warm. A glass of milk, still cold. A tag on the cookie plate. "For Harry (eat me)." He picked up a cookie and bit into it, filling his mouth and his nose with the rich smell of cinnamon and the warmth of the kitchen. Chew. Swallow. Another bite. Another. A swallow of milk. A small hand, reaching out toward the stirring rob in the cauldron, grasping it, moving it counter clockwise in wide circles, the potion inside beginning to thicken. Looking up toward the man with his back to him, then back at the potion, checking the color, checking the consistency, adding just a drop of freshly melted snow, stirring again, concentrating on the task. A hand on his, larger, broader, warmer. Helping him hold the stirring rod, moving his hand in slower circles, first clockwise, then counter clockwise, countintg with him. "Finished" whispered little Harry, looking up at the man but seeing only the cobwebs clinging to the bottom side of the stairs going up to Dudley's bedroom, and Dudley's second bedroom, in the house on Privet Drive. Closing his eyes again. Big Harry dreaming about Little Harry dreaming about a home.

Minerva and Severus were talking quietly when he awoke, sitting on the upholstered side-by-side armchairs opposite the couch. The sun was beginning to set and the wind was still howling, the oil lamps still flickering. "….months," Severus was saying. "Won't make it through the summer." Minerva's voice, faint as he struggled to hear, "…he'll live as long as it takes…has a job to get done…" Harry shifted and struggled to sit, the fur-lined coat heavy around him. He didn't remember having it over him when he fell asleep. The dream niggled at his brain and he struggled to recall it as Minerva stood and bade him goodbye and Happy Christmas and Severus began setting the chessboard up on the low table between his chair and the sofa.

Christmas Day for Harry was for opening gifts and eating too much and napping and dreaming and losing at chess and feeling safe, safer than he'd felt since summer. Christmas Day for Severus was for coming to terms with being needed, by a familiar, by a child on the verge of manhood, by an old man who could not finish what had to be done without his help.

They played more chess on Boxing Day, and took a walk along the beach, bundled up in fur-lined cloaks. Harry sprawled on the sofa reading Tarzan of the Apes, enthralled at the tale, unbelievable as it was, but then again, wasn't his life unbelievable as well? Leftovers for supper, then two hours of Occlumency practice, learning to better split his concentration, split his attention, split his mind in two so one part could shield and the other function as if nothing at all were wrong.

The real work began the next morning, for Severus was determined that Harry would learn Legilimency. He also wanted to discuss Albus' plans for Harry, help Harry determine for himself, with all the facts he needed, the path he would take once he was really free to choose for himself. But as that topic did not lend itself well to casual introduction, he decided to begin with Legilimency.

He didn't expect it would be easy for Harry as Legilimency, when used effectively, was a gentle, subtle attack, a sneaky and quiet intrusion aimed at stealing thoughts and secrets. Harry was a master of defense, which made him a natural with Occlumency once he learned to tamp down the emotions and lose himself in nothingness. Harry was not generally or outwardly aggressive—would he be able to steal into Severus mind, skim the surface, pry even deeper?

Yes, he would.

For Severus had forgotten one thing; Harry might not be overtly aggressive but Harry was sneaky, stealthy. He'd learned early in life to survive by slipping into the shadows, blending in with the woodwork, being invisible even before Dumbledore had given him that blasted invisibility cloak. Growing up in a family that never told him anything, all of his information was learned by stealth and observation.

Thus it took very little for Harry to grasp the essentials of Legilimency. Eyes. The windows of the soul. Lock eyes. Slip in behind the eyes, brush the surface of the mind, flitting over surface thoughts and feelings, pushing a little deeper, a little harder. Not the harsh attack, the mental rape, Severus had subjected him to last year but Legilimency as a sneak attack, the victim surrendering information without even realizing an attack was in process.

They went at it all day, stopping briefly for lunch, and Harry, by the end of the afternoon, had more adjectives to describe Severus' eyes than he'd had before, when he'd have said "black" and perhaps "intense." But after today he knew that they really weren't black but rather a deep, intense brown, the pupils looking larger than they were because the deep brown of his pupil blended with the black rim. Severus' eyes were dark, and intense, and clear and piercing. They were soft when memories of Lily were close to the surface and hard when those memories turned to James Potter and his friends. They could change from hateful to fearful to hurt to defiant. Harry's fledgling attempts at Legilimency revealed to Harry that beneath the even, polished surface, Severus was torn, that he didn't expect to survive his spying days, that he wasn't sure that Harry would make it through as well.

Severus didn't learn all about Harry's eyes that Christmas season. He'd been watching Harry and his eyes for six years, and he knew those eyes in another face as well. He didn't need Legilimency to know that Harry was afraid for Severus' life, that he was torn over Dumbledore, half mourning his coming end and half resentful that he was being used. But he used Legilimency to extract the half-remembered dream, and to realize that Harry, in his subconscience, recreated his unhappy past with a Christmas cauldron and potion-making with a father he never had. He wasn't playing Quidditch with James Potter in his dreams.

On the sixth day they spent at Shell Cottage, after mock battles on the sand with wands and mock battles in the parlor with the chess board, Severus sat with Harry on the sun porch, heat radiating up from the baseboards and warming the air around them, and had the talk.

The talk about prophecies and reality. About free will and responsibility. About what the world needs…and what Harry needs. Don't go into this blindly, Harry, because a very old man that you love very much leads you down a twisted path with no finish line in sight. Don't rush in like a Gryffindor fool where Slytherin angels fear to tread. Think, Harry, think. What is the power he knows not? What does it mean to be Voldemort's equal? How can neither live while the other survives? What does it mean to be marked? What does it mean to be free? If you do choose to do this thing, don't go at it alone. Dumbledore always has a plan, always has an ulterior motive, will never tell you everything you need to know because you can tempt fate, dabble in the future, but in the end, everyone has a choice, right?

And he's dying, you know. The curse is spreading, up past his elbow, nearing his shoulder and from there such a short distance to his heart. But he has more to tell you, and even I don't know what it is that we're fighting yet. But he knows.

And Harry could give as good as he took. If I choose to leave, will you come with me? The look in Severus' eyes was his answer. No. His path is determined, he won't quit, won't flee, won't turn away. He'll be the spy and watch over Lily's boy and be Dumbledore's intermediary because he sinned, but is repentant; he erred because he is human but he will be forgiven, he will find peace. He made a promise to Dumbledore and he will see it through, 'til Dumbledore is dead and buried in a white marble tomb on the shores of the lake and his own body lies abandoned and forgotten at Voldemort's feet. Bury me on Dumbledore's left; you take the right, my boy, but wait a few years or a hundred to claim your place.

Would you give it up for me? We'll go to the States, to the Continent, to an island in the South Pacific. Change our names. Change our appearance. I'll grow a beard—you can shave yours. Dress like Muggles, like the Beatles. I'll be George and you can be John. No, I'll be John—wear the glasses—you be George. I'll just be one year short at Hogwarts but you can teach me what I don't have time to learn there. Who needs NEWTs when you're living on the run, playing the guitar in the New York subway, catching dollar bills and quarters in a ragged top hat?

Harry knew that Severus was Dumbledore's man, through and through.

Severus knew that Harry was Dumbledore's man, through and through.

In the end, when Dumbledore was gone, they'd have each other. For a time, at least.

There'd be no New York subways, no islands in the South Pacific. Severus would remain a spy and Harry would remain the Chosen One. There was the prophecy, which they could defy. There was fate, which they could challenge. But in the end, there was Dumbledore, and Dumbledore needed them.

The New Year dawned clear and cold at Shell Cottage.

Harry and Severus packed up their things and prepared to floo back to Hogwarts. Harry chased the Slinky down the stairs and gathered gobstones from beneath the sofa. Severus sent Mac ahead with a letter for Dumbledore. He was already becoming fond of the owl. That worried him.

"We'll come back this summer, Harry," said Severus, as Harry's eyes roved around the cottage as if committing its nooks and crannies to his memory.

Harry smiled. "Promise?"

Severus nodded, rashly promising something he could not hope to deliver.

Harry flooed out first and Severus followed a few minutes later.

They wouldn't return together that summer, but they would eventually return. A taller Harry, hair longer, with broader shoulders, a stubbly beard, a few more scars. Not quite 18 but a hundred years older. A thinner Severus, weaker, leaning on Harry, a few more scars, inside and out.

They'd walk on the beach, and sleep in the lounge chairs and sometimes, because he could and because he wanted to, Harry would slip into his Animagus form and run along the beach or nibble the grass where sand met turf, looking up with doe-like eyes at the windows on the porch and flicking his tail at the man standing there with one hand pressed against the glass and the other against his heart.