The music is loud and eerie, and it carries on the breeze, coming up and echoing through the archways of the viaduct. Severus leans against the arch of stone to his left, looking down the slope toward the Quidditch pitch. The voices are high and slightly dissonant, and he thinks he recognizes the artists if not the song itself: sung in Latin, with strange peaks and troughs in the music, he knows the unique sound of the choir of ghosts that record their music in the catacombs beneath Paris.

Hovering above the pitch are a few hundred pumpkins with faces carved into their sides, lit within by coloured candles that glow a haunting green.

Seeing the glow of dark green light, Severus is reminded of the way the Dark Mark hangs in the sky, and he lets out a slow exhalation. He furrows his brow slightly, wrinkling his nose: in the air, there is an ashy scent that brings back sudden memories of his childhood home in Cokeworth, memories of sitting in the front room with the hope that his father might finish his cigarette, and then speak with him.

“No smoking on the Hogwarts grounds, Potter,” he says. Coming slowly up the steps, a slight stiffness to his left side, Potter grins at him. It was pure bad luck that forced his retirement from the Auror force not eight months after joining. Severus had seen Potter’s scars printed in a glossy magazine, spread like a well-rooted plant across his side, and digging into the very bone.

“You want one? They’re low tar.” Potter blows out a playful ring of smoke, and he grins, showing off his teeth. Despite the difficulty he has in using stairs or walking distances, Potter does not seem especially upset about his new position on the Hogwarts staff, teaching Charms alongside Filius and assisting him in building a new duelling course.

Now that the war is through, Minerva had decided each of the staff ought take on some manner of apprentice, opening Hogwarts up to more staff and adding more classes to the syllabus; Potter and Filius work exceedingly well together, and Filius seems delighted with his progress.

Severus, for his part, keeps to the dungeons, and he works through every Saturday with Jakob Mikkelsen, his replacement. Jakob Mikkelsen teaches classes, grades essays, works with the students themselves; Aurora Sinistra is now the Head of Slytherin house. Severus’ position is administrative, working out the accounts for the Potions department, and brewing the potions used by the infirmary. He had agreed to remain at Hogwarts for a year, but he had not consented to teach, and Minerva had been far from reluctant to allow him an alternate position.

Last night, while working through the contents of Albus’ office (because it is Albus’ office to him, even now, even after last year’s horror), Minerva had come to him with the stack of resignation letters that Severus had penned every single year, at the end of the spring term.

“There are over fifteen letters here!”

“I attempted to resign every year,” Severus had said, mildly, over his breakfast coffee.

“Attempted?”

“Albus wouldn’t accept them. I remained tenacious.” And even after his death, Severus had not yet been permitted to leave. Minerva had stared at Severus’ face, her blue eyes wide with uncertainty, perhaps a bare hint of fear – what if, she seemed to think, Albus wasn’t the man she thought he was?

“But why resign? You truly hated Hogwarts so much?”

“I have never hated Hogwarts,” Severus had replied. “I hate teaching.”

“Severus?” Potter says, and Severus feels his eyes focus on the boy. Not even twenty, and with a disabling injury to his hip, and with the weight of the Wizarding World upon his belt. “You okay?” Severus stares at Potter’s face, his gaze hard, but Potter is unflinching.

“I’ve been observing the Halloween proceedings.” He cannot allow Potter to ask him personal questions of any nature, else it will soon devolve into questions about his past, or of his time at Hogwarts, or of the war. Severus is willing to be civil, but he has lines he will not cross.

“The kids are really getting into it,” Potter says, smiling and standing beside Severus. Severus is aware of Potter’s aggressively Muggle attire, his denim jeans, his thickly-corded woollen jumper, paired with dragon hide boots and a silver cloak worn over top. Severus has a sensitive nose, and he smells cigarette smoke mixed with parchment and blooming flowers, and the honeyed note of Potter’s shampoo. “You like Halloween?”

“Ms Hayworth has done admirably in organising the event,” Severus says, as if he does not hear the question. “It is to be admired: Ms Hayworth was a curse-breaker when she left Hogwarts. She became a historian, of course, but she has brought many jinxes to the popular vernacular.”

“Celia’s a nice girl. You like her?” Severus hesitates, for the barest moment. The ghostly choir is reaching a haunting crescendo, rising on the wind.

“Ms Hayworth is a very innovative woman,” Severus says. “I have a distinct respect for her.” There it is. The floodgates have opened: Severus has overstepped his very own boundary in answering a question, and now Potter will begin his tirade of questions, those questions he is so desperately hoarding, to interrogate Severus about his every wrong decision.

“Me too,” Potter says, and he offers Severus the box of his cigarettes. Silk Cut, the packet decrees. “They’re low tar.”

“You said that already.”

“They seem to think it’s important.” Severus takes a cigarette from the box, and Potter waves his hand, muttering a word that isn’t Incendio: the cigarette lights. Potter grins at him. “You impressed? Wandless magic, Severus. I learned it in my hospital bed.”

“Can you do anything other than light a cigarette, Potter?”

“Nope,” Potter says, proudly. Severus feels his lip twitch. Severus draws the cigarette to the mouth, feeling the rush over the roof of his mouth and the slight burn in the back of his throat. “I’m gonna head down to the Halloween party. You wanna come? We can dance.”

“Do you know how to dance?”

“Would you teach me?”

“Minerva will.”

“Can you dance?”

“Some.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“You don’t like parties?”

“Hate them.”

“Me too,” Potter says: it seems honest.

“Why are you going to the party?” Severus feels himself ask, unbidden. “If you don’t like them?”

“Don’t we all do what’s expected of us?” Harry asks, exhaling smoke through his nose like a dragon in a children’s tale.

“Not all,” Severus says. “Good night, Potter.”

“Happy Halloween, Severus. Think you might call me Harry any time soon?”

“Good night, Potter.” Potter’s smile is full of nothing but warmth, and although Severus can see the tiredness in his eyes and the stiffness in his side, Potter seems content to leave it at the wayside. Severus feels the cigarette in his hand, and he is reminded of the last summer he and Lily were friends, sitting on the roof of the closed-down rooftile factory and sharing a pilfered cigarette – she’d taken it from Tuney’s handbag.

Silk Cut. Low tar.

Severus leans his back against the wall and, out of curiosity more than anything else, merely to see if he can still do it, he exhales with his lips parted in an O, his tongue shifting with the movement. The ring of smoke is perfectly circular, and as Severus makes his way down to the dungeons, away from the music of the Halloween party, he allows himself the barest smile.