Remus stares down at his hands, worn from time and littered with scars, and wonders, not for the first time or the last, what the purpose is for his continued existence.

He’s never truly had a real proper grip on his emotions; Sirius had always told him straight to his face that Remus was always so sentimental, so serious and all that ‘annoying stuff’. James had always teased him on it, but it was always in good-natured banter, he knew. But with two of them gone and the other thrown in Azkaban — he still can’t believe it, he doesn’t want to believe it — it leaves him with nothing else but himself.

There are so few details in Remus’ life that aren’t vague or mundane or just downright depressing, and it leaves him sitting there feeling so small and insignificant under the overwhelming analysis of it all. He sees things as it is; how he’s the only standing marauder that’s graduated from Hogwarts and is still free and alive.

(And sometimes that can be all it takes to make him want to settle in the nearest corner and just die.)

But his musings are cut short by the opening of the door to his side; Dumbledore comes ambling in with Fawkes soaring past him and to the perch coloured in a molten gold shade that’s stationed behind his desk.

“Ah, Remus,” the elder wizard begins in a jovial manner, spreading his arms out wide in welcome. “It has been a great many years since I’ve last seen you, just a little over a decade, I should think. Have you been keeping up with those monthly potions I’ve asked Poppy to send you?”

He has, in fact, and it’s difficult to restrain a wane smile when all he can feel for this man at this moment is the immense amount of gratitude (and guilt, always guilt) for his continuous generosity. The Wolfsbane Potions, Remus knew, were all being procured by Severus Snape himself. He’d have to extend his thanks to the man again when he returned home.

Dumbledore’s pleased by the nod he gives, reaching for a bronze tin that sits just to the side by the quills on his desk. He unscrews the lid, plucking something yellow from it before flicking it into his opened mouth before turning and offering Remus a look at what he can see is—

“Lemon drop?” There’s an amused kind of grin that Dumbledore’s sporting when he sees the look that Remus is wearing.

One decade.

He looks up to gauge any other expression than amusement on the Headmaster’s face. He finds none, then sighs and settles back into his chair, wordlessly declining the offer.

One decade and the wizard’s still fixated on lemon drops.

There’s a large part of him that’s wondering how Harry has changed over the years; he’s just gotten out of his first decade of life and isn’t that just amazing? James and Lily would be over the moon, he’s sure— he knows. And in just a few short months, he’ll be walking through these very halls. Young, and alive.

Merlin, he misses him.

---

The boy had run off again, the stupid idiot, and he’d found him gawking at one of the brooms up on the front display of the Broom Shop, muttering “Blimey,” under his breath with reverence.

He’d steered the boy into Ollivanders by the collar of his shirt, again, only to stop when he heard the boy choking with his hands scratching at his neck. He pulled away almost immediately, hands flying to the boy’s shoulders as he pulled down the front part of his shirt forward to air out the pressure.

The snowy owl squawks in his ear at the jostling from where she's perched upon his shoulder.

Potter, meanwhile, hacked out a loud cough into the palm of his hand that soon twisted into a series of other ones that nearly made him throw up his ice cream.

Severus winced.

He hadn’t meant to pull him that hard.

(That was a lie.)

He hadn’t meant to hurt the child.

“I’m okay,” Potter gasps, thumping a hand against his chest with a sniffle. He gives it a moment to settle before shooting Severus a comical thumbs up, though the grin he tries to draw comes out shaky at best. Severus feels his stomach churn slightly at the sight. “Sorry.”

(That is the boy’s 8th time apologising, Severus notes.)

---

He knows where his wand resides among the rest on the shelves (Case 77, located between Cases 43, 55, and 68 on the very bottom shelf), because he feels something pulling the tips of his fingertips, feels the way he has to flex them when they begin closing and opening by themselves, as if there’s something he’s supposed to be holding.

But Snape is there, hand grasping his shoulder as if to keep him grounded to the spot.

Ollivander can be seen in the backroom, shuffling boxes that look too heavy to carry for a man of his structure into one pile to the next. Harry reaches up to tap the counter bell, inwardly cursing his height and how his head barely pokes out from above the counter. When he peers back into the backroom, he can see the Wand Maker's back pause and stiffen, slowly lowering the crate he's holding to the side.

"Harry Potter?" It's a reverent whisper, barely a breath, and there's a silent moment where the man tilts his head up to the ceiling.

Behind him, Snape rolls his eyes and parrots Harry's previous actions of ringing the counter bell once more, a tad harder than strictly necessary.

Ollivander startles at the sound, whirling around with his mouth slightly ajar. It's a funny sight, Harry admits, but it doesn't stop him from furrowing his brows at Snape.
He earns an unimpressed look in return.

"My, you've certainly grown over the years; looking much like your father in regards. A very… spirited young lad when he was your age, yes," he folds his hands over each other in front of his chest with the beginnings of a soft smile spreading across his lips, eyes crinkling. "Though your eyes… no, they sparkle with your mother's hope and fiery defiance. Green like an enchanted forest, wouldn't you say Professor Snape?"

Silver eyes flicker up to meet cold obsidian. Snape narrows his eyes through a grimace, holding his head up high as if to look down at the man opposite him.

"Indeed."