The Twelve Days Of Christmas

By Josan



On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

Severus Snape rested his shoulders against the closed door to his private quarters and sighed loudly.

Well, that was over and done with for another year. He'd presented himself in the Great Hall and had endured the annual frou-frou-all over the Christmas meal followed by the handing out of gifts. He'd received his usual bottle of firewhiskey from Albus and watched the Headmaster open his usual gift of socks and only then had he been allowed to escape.

He hefted the bottle of Ogden's and was on his way to the cabinet which held several crystal glasses of adequate size to deal with the aftereffects of his ‘celebrations' when he realised that there was something in his sitting room that hadn't been there prior to his departing for the festivities.

At first glance, it appeared to be a small tree. One of those artistically altered ones, with a braided trunk, all greenery tamed to appear like some kind of open parasol. The firelight reflected on something that on closer inspection turned out to be a pear. One, single, perfectly ripened, golden pear.

As Snape went to touch it, there came a soft sound from the other side of the greenery, one that called for immediate investigation. A bird. Reduced in size to roost comfortably on one of the internal branches. Not just any bird, concluded Snape, but a partridge.

As he reached for the bird, it opened its beak and magically ‘warbled' a tune that Snape had endured only hours earlier in the pre-meal activities.

"Bloody hell! What the hell... *Who* the hell..."

He had the house elves roast the re-sized partridge for a late-night supper and finished his meal with a pear tart, both accompanied with far too much firewhiskey. The pear wood added a nice golden hue to the flames in his fireplace.

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

He was dreaming about cooing.

That had to be it. Though why cooing, he couldn't determine. Never before had his annual hangover included cooing.

Had Albus fiddled around with his gift before wrapping it for Snape?

Eyes tightly shut, Snape slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position. He could feel the root of every one of the hairs on his head. His stomach roiled unhappily and Snape swallowed gingerly, waiting for his world to settle.

He could still hear that bloody cooing.

He carefully opened blood-shot eyes and squinted about his bedroom. There was just enough light coming through the drapes for him to know that the unfiltered form would be sending thunderbolts through his brain.

There was that bloody noise again. Where...

He listened more carefully, trying hard to ignore the drummers and canon shots dueling in his head. Ah...

He looked up and found two doves nestling against each other perched on one of the upper folds in his bed curtains.

He reached for his wand and wondered what kind of recipes the house elves had for a dove pie.

It was only after he had dealt with his hangover, washed and dressed that he took the time to identify what would be the contents of his lunch.

Turtle doves in hand, he approached his sitting room with held breath. No, but he was safe. Nothing else avian would be joining the meat in his pie.

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

Snape entered his rooms, his mind still on the potion slowly stewing in his private laboratory.

The sight of three hens roosting on the back and arms of his couch brought him to a standstill.

He knew they were hens because of the three eggs that lay glaring white against the darkness of the seat of his battered leather couch.

All right. This had to end.

Only bloody Albus Dumbledore had the passwords to his rooms. School rule...well, the Headmaster's rule since the final days of Voldemort. Just in case someone, meaning Severus Snape, was in trouble.

"Can't have you dying of some curse in your rooms and no one able to get to you," Albus had smiled, shaking his head sympathetically.

To make it seem less intrusive, Albus had insisted that all staff members had to keep him up-to-date on their passwords. Just in case of accidents. So every time Snape did change his passwords, they appeared on the list the Headmaster kept in his office. Even though Voldemort had been dealt with on Hallowe'en two years previously.

Snape glared murderously at the hens who were cackling happily amongst themselves. It was the matter of a few minutes' work, even without a wand, for him to slip the eggs into his pockets and grab the hens.

The few inhabitants of Hogwarts who were spending the holidays at the school were all drawn by the sound of squawking fowl as Snape, holding the terrified birds by their feet, wings flapping, feathers littering his path, took the absolute longest way down through the halls down to the kitchen.

There, a rather bewildered chief house elf accepted the hens and added them to the small school flock, where they lived happily, producing many an egg for the Potions Master's meals.

With those eggs already laid, the house elf chef whipped up a custard served up to Snape with his favourite black current jam.

Albus Dumbledore swore to Snape that the bottle of firewhiskey had been the only gift he had made to his Potions Master that year. Swore on his wand.

Snape had to believe him, though he still had his doubts.

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

"Oh, for crying out loud!"

The cage was massive. The height of a man. And it hung from a solid cast iron stand.

The cage itself was a masterful work, with filigreed hearts and love birds woven in what had to be silver wire.

And inside the cage, nestled happily together on a thick branch, were four birds cheerfully chirping away, blissfully unaware of Snape's stormy expression.

He stomped over to the fireplace, threw a handful of floo powder and snarled into the green flames, "Headmaster!"

Dumbledore's head appeared. "You...paged me, Severus?"

Snape stepped back, gesturing towards aviary. "Are you still going to insist that this is none of your doing?"

Albus blinked. "Oh, dear."

"Well?"

Albus blinked again. "I swear, Severus. I have no idea how that got into your rooms. Nor who would have done so."

Usually Snape would have scoffed, but the Headmaster looked so very sincere. There no hint of that infuriating twinkling in his eyes whenever he had successfully pulled some joke on a member of his staff.

Snape nodded and Albus disappeared.

The glare on his face did not lessen as he dropped into his favourite armchair, slouched down and debated hexing the joyous chirpers.

Instead, he pulled out his wand and, taking the Headmaster at his word, cast a tracer spell on the cage and its occupants. Nothing. Not a hint of the jokester responsible for these...these ‘gifts'.

Well, he would change his passwords again even though he knew the passwords would go straight to Dumbledore. He didn't doubt that the jokester probably had some inside connection and would know about them soon enough. But a few new wards on his quarters would be a different matter.

An hour later, a pleased though very surprised Sprout was examining the wondrous cage that had mysteriously appeared in her personal greenhouse. Moreover, a series of complex wards had now been cast on all entries to Snape's rooms.

"Let's see you try to make your way past those," Snape challenged his jokester.

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

It was a small box this time.

Snape hadn't seen it immediately on entering his rooms and so thought that his warding had been successful. In fact, he'd allowed himself a small chuckle at his victory.

It was only after he'd settled on the couch, glass of firewhiskey in hand, with the day's mail, especially the latest ‘International Journal of Potions Masters', to be read, that he noticed the gaily wrapped box sitting on the table next to the couch.

The air blued with curses as Snape grabbed the offending box and pulled his wand out of his sleeve to blow it up to smithereens.

Then he remembered the gift of the fifth day and slowly allowed his curiosity to cool his temper. With a certain amount of care, he tore the silver and green wrappings off to discover a squarish, black velvet jeweler's case.

The rings were indeed golden. Pure gold in fact. And there were five of them.

But it was the presentation that caused Snape's jaw to drop.

A ‘gates of hell' cock ring.

What indeed the hell...

Snape sat back, staring every which way at the rings in his hands.

There was a message in this somewhere.

But where?

And more importantly, who?

Suddenly, Snape's heart fluttered in his chest as though it had some trouble beating. A name flickered through his mind but then...no, it couldn't be. Not now. Not after all this time.

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

By now, of course, Albus had shared Snape's gifting with the rest of the staff who had, of course, been overheard discussing said gifts by some of those students who were spending the holidays at school. Who, as it had been too good to keep to themselves, had owled the news on to their best friends.

So when Snape stomped into the Great Hall for breakfast, all witches and wizards present were sitting at the table, waiting to see if he'd received his Sixth Day gift.

He condescended to scowl at them, happy to disappoint them.

"Seen any geese?" Albus dared inquire.

Snape's glare managed to convince the Headmaster to examine the contents of his morning porridge. The table was disappointed but cheered up when the youngest, a Hufflepuff, was heard to say, in a very soft voice, "Day's not over yet!"

Snape ignored the expectant looks and nudges, finished his breakfast and went off to brew a potion that Madam Pomfrey had requested against some new strain of influenza. And it was only because she wanted to discuss last minute specifications with him that she was accompanying him.

"Really, Poppy, I do know what is needed. You've discussed this with me every time you've seen me this last week."

He opened the door to his private workspace and froze.

There, in a row, on the counter that he had cleaned thoroughly only yesterday, were six nests. Large nests. And in each was a goose. A large goose.

Several were looking at him with suspicion. One or two were inspecting the contents of their nests, using their bills to rotate an egg more favourably for hatching.

"Severus, is anything wrong?"

And before Snape could block her, Poppy Pomfrey ducked around him to see why he hadn't moved.

"Oh. Yes. Well," she said, her hands coming up to cover her mouth and her giggles.

Which only grew louder and more out of control when Snape, livid, stalked to the nests in a threatening manner.

Later, Poppy fought hard to keep a straight face as she worked some of her medical skills on a badly bitten and nipped Potions Master.

"I...want...them...OUT!" Snape growled.

"Yes," she said, in her most calming tones, "already done, Severus. Minerva was raised with geese and so knew how to handy the situation. She and some of the younger children have rounded them up and herded them to the fowl shed. Albus said he would see to the removal of the nests and the cleaning up."

Snape tried to sit up and winced. "Bloody hell!"

"Did I miss a spot?" Poppy asked innocently. "I'm sorry. This is a little out of my sphere of experience, you understand."

Snape leaned over again and endured the indignity of having his arse de- bruised.

"By the way," Poppy asked, "do you have any plans for those geese? Other than wanting them out of your sight?"

Snape didn't bother vocalizing an answer to that. She nodded. "So we can keep the eggs as well? Good. There's this medical potion that requires goose eggs as a base."

At the darkening look he sent her, she bit her lip nervously. "Of course, I wouldn't think of asking you to brew it: you do so many potions as is. I'm certain that Albus..."

Snape gathered up his remaining dignity and, with a muttered "Whatever," went to hide in his rooms.

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

Snape dreamt of the many ways he would exact revenge when he got his hands on the jokester who was making his life a misery.

Here it was, the last day of the year, and instead of working on his annual inventory of his laboratory, he was lolling in bed like some Philistine.

He rolled over onto his back and stared at the bed curtains. No surprises in them this morning.

He sighed and decided to take a long, hot shower. His arse and legs still ached, in spite of Poppy's magic, where the geese had gotten him. With a certain reluctance, he rolled stiffly out of bed. Grabbing his dressing gown, he headed for his bathroom.

He opened the door. Stared into his bathroom. Shut the door.

He stood there for several minutes, surprised to discover just how composed he was. Yes, of course. There was no real reason for him to be surprised. Was there?

He was quite pleased that he could calmly walk over to the fireplace and put in a call to Dumbledore.

"Headmaster. My rooms. Immediately." He spoke as to one of his classes, his tone indicating his expectation of total compliance and obedience. Wrapping the dressing gown more securely around himself, he sat down gingerly on his couch and stretched his legs out before him.

Albus Dumbledore stepped a little warily from the fireplace and said nary a word. Snape merely pointed to his bathroom door and crossed his arms over his chest.

Dumbledore grimaced slightly and went over to the door. Opened it. Wisely made no comment on the fact that Snape's bathtub now filled as much of the room as possible. Nor on the seven, very large swans swimming gracefully on the small such pond.

He closed the door and cautiously turned back to Snape.

"I swear I had nothing..." began Albus but stopped when Snape merely quirked an eyebrow at him. "Yes, well. I'll see to it that these are out of your quarters as soon as I can arrange it."

"Immediately," said Snape, very softly, lowering his head.

Albus knew that look. He cleared his throat and nodded.

At Snape's request, the house elf chef served roasted swan for the meal that welcomed in the new year.

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

Snape no longer tried to avoid the situation. There were, he consoled himself, only five days left and, if he remembered well, none contained anything feathered.

Still, he was admittedly cautious when he opened any door that morning. It was a relief to find nothing untoward in his bathroom, nor the sitting room, nor his lab.

He forewent lunch in the Great Hall and ordered up a cold roasted swan sandwich from one of the house elves. He finished his inventory in time for tea and decided to join his fellow instructors in the staff room.

They had already started before him, but Minerva quickly fixed him a cup of tea the way he liked it, with three sugars and a drop of...

"There's no milk left." Minerva smiled nervously at him.

"I'll take it as it is then," he said, not willing to play into the situation.

Minerva shook her head. "No trouble. I'll just call..."

The door to the staff room slammed open and, improbably, a house elf stood in the doorway, eyes nearly popping out of her head. Before anyone could say anything about this most un-house-elvish of behaviour, a doleful, lowing "Mooooooo!" was heard from the hallway.

All present in the staff room looked towards the door. All except one who closed his eyes, muttering invective under his breath.

"I don't think that's possible, Severus" said Flitwick as he slipped off his chair in response to another plaintive moo.

Apart from Snape, the room was suddenly emptied as the instructors stood staring, mouths agape, in the hallway.

Minerva looked over her shoulder at Snape who met her glance with one of his renowned eyebrow-quirks. "Guernseys," she said.

Albus, probably drawn from his office by the commotion, stuck his head around the doorway. "Eight of them."

Snape reached for a chocolate biscuit and snapped a bit off it.

"Very pretty," said Poppy. "Almost beautiful."

"Very intelligent eyes," Flitwick agreed.

Albus nodded. "Someone has very good taste."

Snape ignored them all for another biscuit and swore he would never again take milk in his tea.

Albus popped back in. "Aren't you interested in the maids?"

Snape shook his head. "I have always preferred men," he said.

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

Snape avoided the Great Hall for most of the day. He worked and ate in his rooms. Breakfast was an egg provided by one of his french hens and lunch was swan soup with a fried egg sandwich.

Snape placed the book he'd been leisurely reading on the side table and finished up the milk-less tea. Well, there was no use putting it off: he would have to join the others in the Great Hall for dinner, like it or not. After all, if the nine ladies dancing hadn't shown up yet, that didn't mean they would not.

And nine ladies dancing required a lot of room. Might as well give them as much as the school could offer.

He strode through the Hall, up to the table where all the others, Headmaster, instructors, students were waiting. Ignoring the expressions on their faces, he took his place and condescended to look around at them.

"Sorry," he said, not meaning it in the slightest.

The youngest Hufflepuff sighed loudly. "I bet I'm going to miss all the fun," he moaned.

He didn't.

No sooner had Snape swallowed his last mouthful of chocolate pie made with thick Guernsey cream accompanied with a whipped cream so rich it was yellow than the sound of music filled the Great Hall.

The females that danced in were not exactly ladies; they were too scantily clad for that nomenclature. So much so that Minerva tried to edge the younger students away from the table. And when that didn't work, she was heard to mutter about casting a blinding spell on them.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Minerva, give over," Snape rolled his eyes at her, much to Albus's amusement. "You can cast Obliviate if you feel the need, but I'm certain the jokester knows very well who is in attendance. I doubt that there will be anything..."

He paused as one of the females draped her chiffon-scarf over him and drew it back suggestively. The youngest Hufflepuff nearly fell off his chair in an attempt to restrain his shocked giggles. The older students didn't bother and neither did most of the staff. Only Minerva shook her head and looked disapproving.

There was a limit to Snape's forbearance: a very short limit. After a well- directed glare, the females turned their attention to the other males at the table, including the youngest Hufflepuff who always attributed his love of certain ‘rhythmic' music to that night.

When everyone's attention was on the dancers, Snape slipped out of the Great Hall and found the restful quiet of his rooms. He was getting ready for bed when he opened the drawer of the night table and saw the black jewelry case. He picked it up and used his thumb to flip it open. With the tip of a finger, he stroked the five golden rings that rested one against the other and wondered if this gift would prove to be as worthless as the others.

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

Everyone waited, with varying anticipation, for the appearance of the leaping lords. For once, the students from the four Houses were united. The only prefect who was there, a Slytherin, had organized the ten students in competition against their instructors. Their goal was to be the first to announce the day's arrival. And there was something more important than money riding on it: there was pride. Pride at beating their instructors. Grounds to boast when the others – who had offered false sympathy about their being stuck at Hogwarts during the glorious time of holidays – returned.

As usual, Snape presented an indifferent facade. But he was curious. In spite of the Fifth Day present, he was still not thoroughly convinced that Dumbledore wasn't behind this, just to keep everyone amused over the long holiday.

He was in the library when the cry went up. Madame Pince took one look at him and waited for him to say something. He didn't. He shrugged and went back to perusing "Portent Potentials in Potent Potions". She snorted and he could hear her robes swishing as she ran out of the library.

He waited a few minutes until, confident he was alone, Snape ambled over to a near-by window, one overlooking the side from which all noise was coming.

He found himself smiling slightly and nodding his head in recognition of what had to be the jokester's sense of humour.

Yes, there were ten. Yes, they were, in a sense, leaping. Yes, they were lords. But not of the peerage. The bright green and white robes had a large golden crown on their chests. The Lairds of Forres were an amateur Quidditch team who were most successful in one of the minor Scottish leagues. As Snape watched, they quickly organized the students into a team and soon had an impromptu match in progress.

Snape picked up his cloak from his room and made his way out to the stands where those not playing were cheering on one side or the other. Besides the team itself, there was the coach, the substitute Seeker, and the Lairds' trainer, all yelling advice to the children, a couple of whom were playing with reckless abandon.

Snape sidled up to the Headmaster who was exhorting a certain caution. After a few minutes he asked, "Do they know who organized this?"

Albus tore his eyes away from the little Hufflepuff who was squealing with delight at this afternoon's pleasure. "No. Was all done by owl. They were paid a nice, tidy sum, too. Won't tell me how much, but they will be happy to remain for an early dinner."

Snape said nothing, just watched as his Slytherin prefect copied some twisting movement that would be sure to add points to the next Slytherin match. Then, as Albus cheered the fairly illegal block, he said, "Pity there's no roasted swan left."

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

No one slept in any longer. Even Albus appeared bright-eyed and bushy- tailed for breakfast, in spite of the fact that there were only three days left before the holidayers would return.

Snape's prefect organized the students once more and they were huddled at the end of the table, planning strategy, with much whispering and muffled laughter.

Minerva gestured with her head at the group and leaned over to whisper, "Do you think this truce will hold?"

Snape looked at the students who were listening intently to his prefect's instructions. "Who knows? Stranger things have happened."

Snape was sitting in his office, going over some of the lesson plans he was preparing for his senior students this term. Unlike a certain few of his colleagues, he refused to use the same lesson plans from year to year. The mere thought was enough for him to fear being driven crazy from the boredom.

The door to his office opened and the little Hufflepuff's head appeared. "Sir? Professor? If you would care to accompany me?"

Snape pretended to give it some thought during which the Hufflepuff's eyes grew a little nervous. "All right. I assume this has to do with the pipers?"

The Hufflepuff lead the way, not to the Great Hall, not to the outdoors, but to the door of the DADA classroom. Snape glared at him just to get the message across that he did not find any of this amusing, then opened the door onto...

Well, even Snape had to admit that this one took him totally by surprise. Not just the cacophony of noise, but the fact that eleven Cornish Pixies, dressed in the Slytherin tartan of green, black and silvery-grey, were flying through the classroom over the heads of ten delighted students.

"What in the name of all..."

Snape glanced over his shoulder at Minerva McGonagall, who was shaking her head in amazement.

"What on earth is that noise supposed to be?"

Snape listened to the shrieking pipes played with no real sense of melody by the Pixies who were using the instruments to shoot spit balls at the students who were ducking right, left and centre.

"I believe," said Snape, "that is supposed to be a version of the 'Twelve Days of Christmas'."

"Oh, dear," was all that Minerva said.

Then one of the Pixies took advantage of the open door to take off on an exploration of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. To be quickly followed in succession by the other ten. It took the students until dinner- time to find all eleven and try out what they had learned in DADA to capture them.

Peeves was the only one who dared complain to Dumbledore, mainly because none of the students and staff had paid any attention to his antics that day.

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

Snape did his best to ignore Minerva McGonagall peering at him over her morning cup of tea. She was polite and old-fashioned enough to wait until he was on the final sip of his to address him.

"It's the last day."

He stopped himself from rolling his eyes at such an obvious statement.

"It's been...interesting."

He poured himself another cup of tea, sugared it and shook his head, refusing the milk he had always taken.

"Don't be daft, man," she complained, pouring the few drops he'd always taken into his brew.

He said nothing, glad that he now had the perfect excuse to continue drinking his tea as he liked it.

"Have you..." She chewed on her lower lip.

He looked at her over the rim of his cup. "Finish the question, Minerva. We wouldn't want curiosity to kill..."

"...the cat." This time she was the one to roll her eyes. "All right. Do you have any idea who is behind all this gifting?"

Snape stared into his cup as though, like Trelawney, he expected to see the future in it. "I have...an idea. A suspicion."

"Nothing more than that?"

He shrugged.

Minerva sighed loudly, indicating that she felt his reticence was more than a little devious. "Do you think you'll ever know?"

Snape placed the cup onto the table and rose, stepping away. "That will all depend, won't it?" he said over his shoulder as he walked away. Though on what, he really couldn't tell.

The students, he noted, were all taking off for different parts of the castle. He would have to pay a little more attention to his prefect after this: the lad was showing definite strategic capabilities. The Department of Mysteries was always on the look-out for decent strategists, no matter which House they came from.

It was afternoon and Snape was double-checking the ingredients in his classroom, in preparation for the start of classes. The Hogwarts Express would be pulling into the station the following evening and he had planned a fairly complex potion to be brewed that first day back. Nothing like the possibility of having a cauldron explode in one's face to sharpen the concentration after more than two weeks of over-eating and lounging about.

At first he thought the sound was thunder but a quick glance out the window showed blue sky. Besides, when he listened carefully, he realised it was coming from inside the castle.

He went to the door and opened it, wincing at the loudness of the drums that resounded through the hallways even down here in the dungeons. Resigned to his fate, Snape followed the drums up into the Great Hall where the others had already congregated.

On the steps leading up to the table at which the staff usually sat were twelve young men and women, all dressed in what appeared to be tattered robes of varying colours. Colours which matched those of their hair.

It was obvious the students knew exactly who these people were: there was lots of squealing, ohhing and ahhing. Especially when two of the males removed their robes, allowing them to drop onto the steps.

Snape took a moment to appreciate the view. There was nothing like firm young male bodies, torsos slightly oiled, jeans so tight that he wondered how they could crouch in them without the sound of accompanying rips.

The drums that were suddenly transfigured were huge, so much so that to play them, the two had to sit on the floor, a leg to either side. They leaned back... Snape's eyes weren't the only ones drawn to stomachs that rippled tightly as they did so. He heard Minerva gasp in what could only be described as appreciation. He spared a glance for his colleague who was licking her lower lip like a cat cleaning milk off itself.

The two began beating their drums softly, the rhythm hypnotic, the sound growing louder and more powerful. At some point, other drums joined in and the Great Hall throbbed as though with heart beat.

Albus came to stand besides them, his eyes gleaming with enjoyment. "More than a few of those were once ours," he yelled into Snape's ear.

Snape winced at the shout but began examining the group, trying to see beyond the hair colours, the exaggerated make-up, the robes that looked more like rags.

Yes, Albus was indeed right, he thought. And not just ours, but mine.

One of the witches beating a synchronized rhythm on a kettle drum was grinning at him. He nodded, face most serious. And without losing the beat, she waved her stick at him, grinning all the more widely.

The students began picking up the rhythm, beating their hands on the tabletop, on their thighs, stomping their feet on the floor.

Minerva took advantage of a quieter moment to lean into his ear – at this rate, he would be lucky to survive this undeafened – to inquire, "How much headache potion do you have on hand?"

January 6

Snape got up before sun rise and dressed for the outdoors. It was the last quiet morning he was going to experience for several months and it was his personal tradition to take advantage of it. Especially when the weather was co-operating, as it was these days.

The pre-dawn air was rather crisp and he was happy to draw the hood of his heavy cloak over his head. His steps took him just far enough away from the outer door so that he had an unadulterated view of the eastern hills and the valleys between them. He slipped his gloved hands into the deep pockets of his cloak and waited, listening to the soft sounds of the trees crackling under their coat of heavy frost.

The sun's rising slowly coloured the sky, lightening the snow-capped hills, sending shadows deep into the valleys.

He felt as one with the world, alone with the purple-pink dawn.

Except he wasn't.

From under the shadows of the trees came the sound of steps breaking the thin crust of frosted snow on the ground.

Snape didn't bother turning around, though a small smile alit on his lips.

"Beautiful," said the soft voice behind him.

"Yes."

The visitor waited and, when Snape didn't add anything, took a few more steps so that he now stood next to Snape.

"You don't sound surprised."

Snape turned his head just enough to see that the man was cloaked and hooded against the morning cold, as he was. "There were enough clues to give me an idea."

"Only an idea?" The voice sounded wistful. "Not a bit of...hope? Of...pleasure?"

"After all this time?" But Snape was careful to make his voice only curious, not accusing or critical.

"I had things to see to after Voldemort's end. Responsibilities to deal with. I had hoped you might understand."

Snape went back to looking at the sun making its way over the hills. "I do. I have to say that your doing so, taking on and dealing with those responsibilities, pleased me greatly."

He sensed a slight lessening of tension from the man at his side.

"I do have one question, however."

"Yes?"

"Why that particular cock ring?"

There was a moment's silence. Then, "Well, it might be something an older man might want to use on his much younger lover as a way of evening up things. So to speak."

Snape turned and stared into the other's hood, a rather wicked smile on his face. "The difference in age will seem much less as you grow older. As for the implication that I will not be able to keep up with you... Well, for that alone, I should use the gates of hell on you, just to teach you a lesson."

He could hear the relief and smile in his lover's voice. "So there was more than a bit of hope after all."

And Snape ungloved a hand, raised and slipped it into the other's hood, pushing it away so that he could look into the unshadowed grey eyes of his former student. He rested his warm palm on the cool skin, his thumb rubbing lightly against the fine bone structure, amazed, as always, that someone who looked so fragile had in fact been strong enough to stand up to his fate.

"There has always been hope, Draco."


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