Work Text:
Archive M4B download here
*
“I must go in, for the fog is rising.“ -- Emily Dickinson
"You must be absolutely delighted, Mr Evans! It sold in a record time," Lavinia Lawson exclaimed. "Our fastest sale ever. It feels like just a short while ago, doesn't it? You must still be celebrating, having finally disposed of— What was it again? Grimmish, Grimdark?"
"Grimmauld," Harry corrected. "Grimmauld Place."
"Yes, yes, of course, and you sold it for a substantial sum — in last year's economy, no less! You should be proud of yourself! It appears you got rid of that dusty old wreck of a ghost house for a princely price! Oh, well done!" She beamed at him and gestured toward a cushy armchair in front of her rather cluttered desk. “Please, have a seat! Would you like some tea, or perhaps something stronger? By the way, I never asked, what name do you prefer to go by? Is it the one on file?”
“Evans is fine,” Harry fibbed. “Harry Evans.”
“Very well, Mr Evans, it's a pleasure to finally meet you in person,” Lavinia said, simpering. It looked like a nervous reaction rather than a sign of insincerity, or so Harry wanted to believe. “My late father spoke so highly of you!"
That couldn't be all true, but of course, all good agents were a bit prone to exaggeration, but Harry appreciated the gesture regardless. "So, what can Lawson and Daughters' Estate Agency do for you this time, Mr Evans?”
“Um, I’d like to buy a new place to live in. A house. You still sell them, don't you?”
“Oh my! You do have a delightful sense of humour, Mr Evans. And yes, you’ve come to the right place, dear!” Lavinia chuckled, her laughter sounding quite melodious, perhaps a bit too much so. “What type of house are you looking for? A flat, a terraced house, or perhaps something just outside London, a nice place in the suburbs to raise a family, maybe? And what is your budget like?” She rummaged through the stacks on her desk, retrieving a pretty pink-and-gold fountain pen and a notepad, then glanced back up at him. “Lastly, Mr Evans, which particular areas of London would suit your needs?”
“Something outside London, actually." As far away from London as one can get if one could ask honestly.
“A house in the countryside, how splendid! And what would be your intended budget this time around?”
“Um,” Harry hesitated. “I don't mind the expense. For the right property, I can afford it.”
"Say no more, my dear Mr Evans! Say no more!" Lavinia grinned like a cat with a canary lodged lolly-wide down her throat, her jaw tightly shut to hide the crime, and her whiskers a-twitching. "Let's see if any of the properties at our disposal might suit your tastes! A townhouse, perhaps, or a restored manor house with a view of the Thames.” She spun around in her seat and opened her coffin-sized filing cabinet, pulling out folder after folder and adding them to the already substantial piles on her desk, humming happily all the while.
“Yes, yes, I’ve got a lovely property here… and have a look at this beauty! On the sixth floor, Mr Evans, a proper bachelor's pad, though any young lady would be delighted to —”
After about an hour of Harry dismissing everything as too big, too close, too central, too 'London', Lavinia finally dropped her sweet façade and raised her hands in exasperation. “Honestly, Mr Evans! You're worse than my maiden aunt Nora, and that's saying a lot. Why don’t you tell me what you are after, rather than what you don’t want to see?”
“Have you got anything that's — a bit more unusual than a London flat? In fact, something that's the complete opposite of what I've just seen would be fine.”
"Ah, why didn't you just say so? I've got just a thing, hm, now where did I stash it?" Lavinia grimaced, tapping her lip with her polished periwinkle-and-pink fingernail, and a twinkle reappeared in her eye. "Ah-ha!" She pulled open the bottom drawer of her desk, then abruptly shut it and instead pulled out a yellowing folder from underneath a collection of unwashed coffee cups. She placed it in front of Harry and sat back, eyeing him slyly. “This — this is just the thing, you see. This, Mr Evans, is as different from central London as we could possibly get! Yes, it's a bit worn down, admittedly, but — Would you possibly be interested in viewing the premises or maybe even —”
Harry wasn't planning to say anything but then he saw a photograph of what looked like a small shipwreck rather than a dwelling, which was supposed to be 'a bit worn down, admittedly.' However, what caught his attention was the former owner's note on the back of the postcard-sized photo: "If you are reading this, the sea has finally claimed her own. Should you bother with repairing my cabin, keep the shutters shut, don't breathe in the fog, and keep the porch lights on until morning. And, whatever you do, do not feed the rumours or the blasted fish. And good fucking luck to you."
Harry peered at the photograph again: it must've been summer on the coast somewhere northwest, past Cokeworth, as Lavinia's map showed. The sun was about to set. Over the ridged rocks, the small red-and-white lighthouse marked the tallest edge of the bleak, sparse landscape. It looked a bit like a toy left there by a child rather than an actual contraption. The fog was rolling in toward the shoreline, pink and orange and oddly sinister. It was the kind of fog that hid pirate ships, swarming hungry eels, and teeming tentacles of unspeakable sea beasts. Harry's eyes widened and he couldn't look away. His heart raced at the thought of an adventure waiting for him there. Surely this had adventures written all over it —
“I’ll take it!”
Lavinia's jaw dropped but she collected herself quickly. "Right then, right you are, Mr Evans, so, now about the price..."
*
"He eteþ no ffyssh But heryng red." an early 14th-century poem by Walter of Bibbesworth.
The place that Lavinia Lawson was so eager to have Harry sign the papers for within a week of his declaration of buying it was, at some point in time, a cottage. "Was" was about right, Harry reckoned – if one felt particularly generous about the definition of cottage. The aged structure did look a bit like a proper gust of wind might end Harry's grand plans for it right there and then. Atop the patchy roof, a rusty weathervane in the shape of a red herring squeaked and rotated toward the sea, and stilled. For a second there Harry was rather worried that the house would turn too, to follow suit, and then collapse into dust along with the breeze. However, the structure held, as he braced himself for the third gust coming from the coastline.
Right then, maybe it was safe to live in after all. He dug a key (marked with a glittery periwinkle-and-pink bow and Lavinia's signature-sweet perfume) out of his pocket and fitted it into the lock. With only a bit of coaxing, it turned with a click.
Harry stepped inside onto a little square mat that proclaimed "Fáilte!" in faded red thread, his feet kicking up a small cloud of dust below him. The cottage was one room, though it was separated into four distinct areas: to the left of the door was a tiny kitchen with an old-fashioned wood stove; behind that in the far corner was a bath and a loo; in the opposite corner a single bed with a chest of drawers; and on Harry’s right was a little sitting area with a couch and bookshelves. It was cosy, if dusty, and he set down his luggage with a sigh of relief.
It took the entire morning to unpack. The bookshelves were full, though when he investigated them closer, he noticed that most of the books were in Gaelic, and the rest had rather dubious titles: "Rods, Reels, and Rigs. Sustainable Fishing." The greasy-spined book called "Nautical Engineering" bore a handwritten verdict on the first page: "Useful. See section 22B." (Harry followed the advice, flipping through the pages, but section 22B turned out to describe in detail which specific lubricating oils he was supposed to use on various joint and hinge types.) Before his eyes completely glazed over, he kicked himself for not allowing Hermione to go wild with the Shrinking Charms packing half of the Black library in his luggage before he left. He cleared a little space on the middle shelf and found some room there for his most prized possessions: the photo album that Hagrid had gifted him long ago, full of infant Harry and the moving pictures of his parents, the mirror shard from Sirius, the remaining outer shell of a golden snitch from Headmaster Dumbledore, and a tightly stoppered phial that swirled with Snape’s silvery memories.
He’d brought some rations, as well – a few boxes of teabags, a little sack of sugar, his favourite biscuits – and he tucked them away into one of the cupboards in the kitchen. He’d need to get some proper groceries, but he had enough to tide him over for a few days.
The bedside cabinet had more than enough space for his few items of clothing, and he set clean sheets and blankets on the bed. He carefully hid his wand in the top drawer under his socks — he wouldn't need it in town, since he intended to blend in with the locals. Despite a terrible pang of unease at leaving it behind, akin to a widower parting with his wedding ring, he shut the drawer. He was surely safe – no one knew he was here – and the muggle settlement in the distance appeared small and sparsely occupied.
Harry took a deep breath. It was absurd to worry about any hidden dangers. He was perfectly safe. After all, he still had magic wherever he went; that was the essence of magic, wasn't it?
He cast one last glance around the place before he left to explore the town.
*
"A crusty carapace and clicking claws. Caught in a cage close to the coast. The common crab is worth five twenty-five; it is prone to infection." - Dredge.
The town of Greater Marrow — and Harry needed to be even more generous with the definition of ‘town’ than he was with ‘cottage’ — was nothing more than a scattering of buildings perched on a rocky outcrop by the sea. It looked as if someone had taken a handful of houses, rolled them across the landscape like dice, and then sliced a road roughly through the middle. Each home clung tenaciously to the rocks, as though they had stood guard there for at least three centuries and were about to face their final battle. Apart from the red and white lighthouse, stern and striped, towering beyond the piles of hastily mended nets drying ashore, the propped-up fences made of upthrust old oars, the sea battering against the rocky maw past the rickety dock with a flock of fishing boats, and the birds crying at the wind — aside from all that, not a single sound signified any sign of human presence above the water level.
Reminded of Shell Cottage, Harry breathed in the fresh salty air and, for the first time in his life, considered the life of a fisherman.
The sunlight beamed idyllically down the quaint little paths, and the golden trees shivered in the sunset as the layer of fog spilling over from the seaside almost reached them. So picturesque the sight was, it was rather perfect.
This could be perfect, a thought struck. It could be a perfect home for me, the kind of home I've always wanted.
He gazed out to the horizon where the blue sky met the sea and felt drawn into its depth. Old tales described generations of islanders dwelling on the backs of living creatures which sailed the ocean, but here, it seemed as if the ocean was the one stirring, shivering, and traversing the landscape, a single majestic creature inhabiting the rocky desert it covered. Translucent and far-reaching, it teemed with smaller beings at its core: multiple generations of sea life crawled beneath its oozing fragile skin and stayed there, trapped and thriving for millennia until they were forever changed and in turn changed their host.
So overwhelming was the thought, that if it weren't for the gentle cries of the seagulls and the afternoon sun beaming against Harry's face, it would almost be terrifying to ponder.
An odd daydream to settle on, wasn't it? Harry blinked and focused on more immediate needs. The house still needed cleaning and Harry still needed groceries. In the fading daylight and the sea breeze and the low rolling clouds of fog blocking his view of the ocean, everything seemed like it would turn out just fine. Perfectly fine. This was precisely what Harry was after at this point in his life.
A fresh start.
*
"Fiddler Crab: a relatively normal-sized crab with a preposterously large claw. The claw can grip with incredible strength, but the arm is fragile and can be snapped with ease." - Dredge.
In the centre of the cluster of houses perched above the rocky cliff and the narrow strip of sand below, sat a pub, which was a slightly larger building with a battered wooden sign above the door. The sign read "The Pub." Atop the barnacled "T" of the sign was a broken piece of a harpoon wielded by a small crab with a rather oversized claw. The crab was carved from a piece of driftwood and painted a rusty shade of brown quite some time ago: the paint had long chipped away on the sunny side, exposing the pale grey underneath.
The interior of the building was just as austere, with a handful of old wooden tables and chairs – as dark and as dingy as a pub ought to be. Half a dozen old men were crammed in one corner, laughing and cursing at each other with the camaraderie that could only be spurred on by a second round of drinks at least. Some tipped their pints to him in greeting as he entered. A chalkboard in the corner listed jellied eels, kippers, the mysterious "Catch of The Day Pie", and the "Many-eyed Mackerel — (whatever that was) — Chowder" on the dinner menu. The breakfast side promised crab cakes with poached eggs, kipper kedgeree, and a hot cuppa strong enough to clear the morning fog well before dawn (guaranteed, or your money back), followed by a hot whiskey punch, apparently a reliable seaside miasma repellent. Harry peered at the menus suspiciously but, a couple of entrees aside, it all looked perfectly reasonable in a town full of fishermen. Harry turned his attention to drinks: aside from the usual ale, grog, and tea served at all hours, the house specialities consisted of Cranberry Caudle, the Quart of Flip, and the Nearly-Bloodless Mary. There was a long bar at the back, with a rather plain (but grouchy) looking fellow behind it. Harry sidled past the tables and sat at the bar. He smiled at the man.
The man did not smile back.
“Er, a pint, please,” Harry ordered nervously, not quite ready for the more adventurous items.
The barkeeper just glared at him in stony silence. Harry wondered if Mr Crabby was in a foul mood on all the days ending on Y or just today, but perhaps the locals had their particular ways to greet folks or the absence of any such manners altogether in this case.
Harry pulled out his wallet to show the man he could pay, but it only deepened the man’s sneer.
“You’re new,” the barkeeper said disapprovingly. "I hope you aren't planning on staying long."
“I am not – I mean, I am. Er, what I mean is, I just moved – I’m from here now,” Harry stammered. Were all seaside dwellers always so intimidating on purpose? The man acted as if he was about to scare the entire town into a decade of sobriety.
Just as Harry was about to suspect that was indeed the plan, one of the locals stood up and, blazing a trail through the neatly arranged cluster of chairs, stumbled up behind him, and clapped him on the shoulder reassuringly. “Frank! Yeh scoundrel!" the man yelled. "Get the lad a drink!” He turned to Harry and whispered conspiratorially, drowning Harry in the second-hand stench of beer: “Hates tourists, he does. Always had.”
“Ah," Harry cleared his throat. "I’m not a tourist. I just moved in – today — actually.”
The barkeeper – Frank, apparently, and his name didn't suit him at all – sneered in Harry's direction in a way that seemed at least amused if not pleased in the slightest. “Moved here? You lost a bet or something, boy ?”
Harry scowled. How long would it take for people to stop calling him that? Bloody hell! That clean shave this morning was a mistake around this lot. Now they'll all assume I'm a spoiled little brat wasting away my summer holidays and my father's fortune. Well, we'll see about that! Harry squared his jaw and stared back. “Nothing of the sort. I've been planning to move here for ages." He was planning to move. Somewhere, at least. "Finally the price was right. Speaking of money — and work — I've been told I am useful around the kitchen. Any chance you need help keeping up with the place for a day or two, on a weekend? Get some practice in before you retire, yeah?”
The man's surprisingly moisturised lips curled with the immediate disgust of someone not a day over forty-five. The local guffawed, slapping the counter with a tattooed fist. “He’s got you there, Frank! He’s got you there!” He ambled back to the table still chuckling, and Harry looked back at the barkeeper defiantly.
Frank tipped the glass filling up the pint to the brim without much head to it with an oft-practised motion and then set the miraculously unspilled drink on the counter just out of Harry's reach, the bastard. “Two quid, and we don’t run tabs. You’ll pay cash or get the hell out of my pub.”
Harry laid the coins on the counter and grabbed his beer, but a hand closed around his wrist.
“Tips are customary,” Frank said, his lips curling meanly. "Unless it's your virgin voyage, then the first pint is always free. Can't picture you as a fisherman though, they are made of sterner stuff than that."
Harry rolled his eyes but threw down one more quid.
Frank narrowed his eyes. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr --?”
Harry sighed. “Evans. Harry Evans.” Not that he expected the arrogant sod to remember him. Frank seemed like the type to run the only pub in town, charge newcomers double, and not give a damn about being polite to his good-paying customers in the slightest. Not like he had to go out of his way or anything to get business around here, from the looks of things, he just had to keep the doors open and the drinks flowing.
Frank's lip curled and Harry couldn't imagine what would be so funny, or so disappointing to hear, about a plain old name like that. "Well then, Mr Evans," Frank said, slapping a rag down on the counter and polishing a single grubby spot with meticulous care. "Welcome to the Greater Marrow, or what's left of it anyway. I wouldn't stay up too late near the water after the sun sets if I were you."
He didn't deserve the coins Harry left behind on the counter but he seemed shameless enough to collect them without hesitation anyway.
"Or what," Harry murmured defiantly. "Don't tell me a sea devil will drag me under."
"Sea devils are an old wives' tale. Here, the worst thing to worry about is still the weather."
"The weather? Ri-ight." Harry huffed. "Ooh. Must be tough. For some of us, I reckon." Shame about those achy old bones, Frank. Those knees aren't getting any younger, are they? he almost added, but held his tongue in time.
Frank's shrewd stare turned sharp and deathly serious as it focused on Harry and Harry alone. The raised brow punctuated his abysmal disappointment in a manner fit for only priests or schoolteachers, not middle-aged barkeepers in the middle of nowhere. "The fog rolls in right before sunset. I wouldn't stay out in the dark too late if I were you: good people have been lost that way. Not only at sea. We lost several to the marsh: they wandered off too far, couldn't find their way back, and then the tide rose. But mostly it's the weather, you see. So, Mr Evans, you're better off heading home and keeping the lights on until morning."
Well, whatever had Frank, a local, spooked like that, was probably worth avoiding, besides, what with all the unpacking throughout the day, Harry wasn't about to go roaming the shoreline without as much as a map or even his wand. Of course, he had more advantages against the elements here — miles away from the nearest wizarding settlement — than any of the locals ever had at their disposal! Harry reached for his chest pocket in a familiar gesture before remembering that the wand waited for him at the house, and instead kept silent, nursing his drink. If he had to raise a glass to something besides good health, magic was a perfect reason! Harry had magic tingling at his fingertips and the best spells his Hogwarts education could offer memorized. But what did Frank know about that? Ha!
"Thanks for the warning," Harry said politely. "Um, I'll keep that in mind."
"You do that." Frank leaned in, a bit too closely — and the next mumbled, nearly imperceptible word out of his mouth made Harry gulp and almost spit out his remaining drink — "Mis-ter Potter."
*
"Gill plates dotted with eyeballs. Superfluous but scanning, frantically. All eyes see right through you." A description of Many-Eyed Mackerel, an aberration of Blue Mackerel in Dredge.
Harry paced on the rocky path back, seething with frustration. He'd chosen this remote place, away from any major wizarding settlements, for good reason and now Frank had taken it first! Frank clearly knew who Harry was and kept quiet until Harry made a fool of himself. Frank was a right arsehole!
There had to be a reasonable explanation for all of this. Perhaps Frank was married to a witch who was not fond of wedding rings or had children who had gone to Hogwarts. But a muggle, even if related to a witch or a wizard, was unlikely to understand the humour of Harry's poor attempt at anonymity. Frank did. A muggle wouldn't know Harry's face, but Frank certainly did. Fine, Frank kept up with the news and probably subscribed to the Daily Prophet. He would have read all about Harry's Order of Merlin, would have celebrated Harry Potter Day, and probably drew great amusement at the three years of Harry aimlessly trying to find his purpose as an Auror before he gave up and withdrew from the Wizarding world, avoiding the press, the speeches, and the accolades. Right. This led to the most likely explanation. Frank was likely a squib who wanted to live out the rest of his days at sea, running his quaint pub, serving fish and chips to the locals, and scaring off every tourist with a warning of doom and danger at sea. That would make perfect sense.
Right? It was so quiet all of a sudden. Quiet and dark.
Huh. With all the wondering about Frank's connections to the magical world, Harry didn't even notice how quickly the sun's rays faded on the coast. In just a few minutes it took to leave town, the golden afternoon turned into an eerie orange dusk and then shifted to an even more unsettling magenta-pink as the bleary fog rolled in from nowhere, obscuring everything beyond ten paces. The fog muffled sounds and settled over him in like chilling Dementor-induced mist, turning Greater Marrow into a haunted marshland in a blink of an eye.
Gone were the warmth and the golden aspens up the hill. Gone were the steady cries of seagulls. Now, their calls echoed shrilly, hauntingly, like cries for help from hunted prey. Harry couldn't help but wonder if something larger, dangerous and sinister, lurked in that fog, watching his every move, ready to swoop in and drag him off to the abyssal sea, never to be seen again. For an instant, Harry was sure of it, as sure as he was of magic.
He didn't want to waste time trying to cast Lumos without his wand, so he headed up the winding path by guessing where it might have been. Just five minutes ago, he was certain of its direction: it led to his new home. Now he was not certain about anything he'd seen.
Then, as sudden as the brightest, swiftest Lumos he'd ever seen conjured, a light cut through the pitch-grey murk, and the fog seemed to part slightly, revealing a blinding, electric beam of light. As haunting as moonlight spilling through the ceiling of a grand cathedral, it swept gently through the landscape. In that brief moment of clarity, squinting at the landscape before him he spotted the silhouette of the shack with a fish-shaped weathervane atop the hill, a short climb away, and — just ten paces to the right, a deadly drop with the view of the dark ocean.
The lighthouse! Of course. Harry thought. How could I forget? Talk about a transformation! That tiny toy-like structure that might as well have been a sweet shop decoration looked nothing like the grand source of a giant, rotating beam of light. Whew, if it wasn't for the light, I might be in trouble. I see now why the previous owner warned about keeping the shutters closed. Can't imagine sleeping the night through this kind of light show without them.
As the lighthouse beam moved away, leaving everything in darkness once more, Harry now knew the right direction to move. Stumbling against the rocks that appeared out of nowhere, he covered the last few feet to the cottage and then felt his way along the shack's outer wall to the switch for the porch lights.
They flashed with an agonising stutter and finally came on. In the dim, silvery light of two dusty, cracked bulbs, the previous frenzy and panic seemed almost nonsensical. I shouldn't drink on an empty stomach, Harry chided himself. And I should definitely stop listening to Frank's nonsense. I should have asked him for some of his fish and chips to go with my drink. That would be so nice right now. Hell, even the many-eyed mackerel — whatever that is — sounds good.
With a growling stomach, he unlocked the front door, flicked the porch lights off, and headed inside to rifle through the cupboards in search of a tin of soup he could heat up on the small corner stove.
As the door squeaked shut behind him, the shack's exterior was plunged once more into inky darkness. And yet, the door did not completely block an answering low growl reverberating through the fog, an ominous groan as if some ancient sea vessel's very bones were about to crack in half, squeezed by a tentacled, deadly embrace.
*
"The town of Greater Marrow burns. The lighthouse lies collapsed, its light extinguished. A red glow fills the sky behind a cyclone that drains the world." - The Greater Marrow vision stone
The following morning greeted Harry with its blissful, sunlit charm, enticing him to explore. To his surprise, the Crabby Pub (the crab on top of the sign providing a fairly accurate preview of what to expect from its owner) remained closed.
Huh, I reckon that in a town this size, the opening hours are not what I'm used to, Harry mused.
Undeterred, he strolled toward 'The Dock', passing by 'The Fishmonger' and catching a brief mention of 'The Trader' on a corner sign that pointed towards Little Marrow, across the water. The town's signs and main street lacked inventiveness, and the crumbling ruin of what appeared to be the city hall was now overrun by lush vegetation, with bees buzzing around a thriving patch of heather.
As he approached, an old lady wearing a beekeeper's hat caught his attention. Harry greeted her. It was always a good idea to be nice to old ladies, they probably ran the place around here, just like anywhere else.
"Hi, love, are you looking for something special today?" she asked. She peeled off her netted headgear and her gloves, and introduced herself as Agnes Oglesby, or 'simply Aggie, please'! Sporting round spectacles like Harry's, her matching pair of furry brows was wielded far more expressively than Harry had managed his own.
"Oh, he probably closed it up again," Aggie remarked to Harry, who voiced his surprise at the padlocked pub. "Poor Frank has been cooped up at the lighthouse for a good part of May. You can't expect him to be social for long."
Harry blinked, confused. "Wait. This is Frank who runs the pub, right?" He scanned the surroundings but found no sign of living quarters, above, aside, or beneath the pub. Unless Frank was an expert at sleeping on a shelf somewhere, it was unlikely that he lived on the premises.
"Oh, that's definitely the right man, dear," Aggie confirmed. "He lives at the lighthouse. All the way at the very top! I don't know how he manages it, just thinking about all those stairs makes my knees ache!"
"Right. So does Frank live alone?"
"Yes, who else would fit in there? I can't imagine! Such a stubborn young man. Ever since he moved and took over, he's had the place all to himself. Not much of a place, I must say."
Harry frowned as he examined the pub's hours posted on the padlocked door, noticing that the closing time was well after sunset. Frank certainly wasn't following his own advice about staying outside after dark! "Surely he has someone to help him out with the lights in the evening!"
"Oh, no dear, I doubt anyone has been on top of that lighthouse since he started taking care of the place. Our Frank isn't fond of visitors, and who'd blame him, with all those camera-clicking tourists after ghost stories and trips to the vision stones? They never stop!" Aggie sighed.
"Huh." Harry pondered this. The lighthouse beacon had come on yesterday right on time, but it couldn't have been Frank who lit it. The old man with his aching knees couldn't have made it up there so quickly. Harry had just seen him at the pub, pouring drinks. Climbing up that hill seemed challenging even for someone young and fit.
Something didn't add up, and Harry promised himself that he would investigate as soon as he had some rest and settled in.
Aggie kept chattering, telling Harry all about the obelisk past the river delta that attracted tourists to the famous vision stones. According to her, on a certain dark night before sunrise, if touched with the right hand, the vision stones lit up with red runes and foretold the town's doom.
Aggie didn't seem too concerned about that. "The stones have been humming their doom for centuries, and Greater Marrow is still here. They definitely sound like my grand Aunt Dolores before breakfast, that's for sure."
Aggie seemed level-headed and Harry trusted her judgement call. Except her stories took a sudden turn as she cautioned Harry: "Don't stay out in the dark too late. The tourist season is over, but the sea is here all year 'round — ah, good, I see you've got your wand on you!"
Harry clutched it, thrown into a mild state of panic. So worried he must've seemed that Aggie pulled out an old birch wand from her wavy bun and grinned innocently at him. "Easy now. Gran was a squib, and so was her Gran. It's not as if I wasn't raised with a family wand, handed down for generations, fat lot of good it did us! My nephew might've had a bit of that skill but the marsh wasn't kind to him, may the sea rest his soul. All of that magic though, is lost on me, I'm afraid. Charms or hexes — I never had a knack for any of it, and cousin Theo tried his best, oh how he did! The wand went to me, not him, but it wasn't meant to be. So this old thing? As good as a knitting needle and twice as sturdy. But hear me out, son, don't leave without your wand at night. And if you're ever in a bind, you can borrow mine anytime, just ask. It's not as if I'm getting much use out of it."
"Oh," Harry said, nodding along. The bees buzzed along with Aggie's tale and her low voice lulled him into a relaxed reverie. She patted his hand and handed him a fresh honeycomb to take with him for tea. "Don't be like me, dear. You should always get a good night's sleep from dawn to dusk — it's the best thing you can do for yourself around here, better than any medicine you can find. And watch out for the crows, you hear, they do get wild. Always carry a good lantern with you. And if you are ever stuck without a light, don't go toward the docks or worse, the marsh and stay on the path, you hear. Do layer up, don't catch a cold! But if you do, my honey will fix you right up."
That all sounded like sage advice, the wisdom of a caring grandmother, and there was a sense of comfort in her fussing. She also gave quite a lot of it all at once, as old ladies were wont to do, and before he left, she said something that caught his attention: "That's one thing I love about this place. Nothing like that back at Cokeworth, that's for sure."
"Cokeworth?" Harry asked, recalling the name from Lavinia's map. Cokeworth was a town up the river south of Greater Marrow. "Is that where you moved from?"
"Who didn't!" Aggie chuckled. "Feels like half of my old neighbourhood is here now. But aye, I moved here right after that horrible fire. Razed the entire block of flats, so a lot of us looked at our options, looked at the ruins, looked at the riverbank, and headed for the delta where the fishing was plenty. Some of us had relatives down here, and some were just happy to see a friendly face. As for me, I didn't want to smell coal dust ever again, not after that terrible night, for as long as I still lived! I reckon many of us lost the taste for it. Some scattered as far as Gale Cliffs. I just stayed here on the dry land, so here I am now. Me and my darling bees."
"Which part of Cokeworth did you say you lived in?" Harry asked. "You see, my mum was from around there." Aggie was old enough that she might have crossed paths with his mum and Aunt Petunia when they were still girls. Wouldn't that be something?
"Elm Street, dear, just around the turn from Spinner's End."
Spinner's End? Wasn't that where Snape grew up, the place from one of the silvery memories in the bottle now resting next to Harry's prized photo album? It was not a happy memory, that's for sure. "Spinner's End? Was the fire contained before it reached Spinner's End, I hope?"
"Oh, so you've heard of it! Dear me, it started there, didn't they tell you? Not a house was left unharmed; we had to abandon the entire block. Wasn't worth rebuilding, or at least the city hall boys said so."
"It wasn't? I'm so sorry, Aggie. Such a pointless loss. You must have been devastated."
"It's in the past now. I've got my garden and my flowers," Aggie said with a jovial smile. "And my hives, every single one accounted for, thanks to Frank! As for Frank, I used to live next to him when he was a boy. That mum of his, for shame what happened, never really told that bastard Toby off, and he deserved rat poison for all the good he did them, that brute of a man. Drink and cards, all he knew! Luckily Frank turned out to be nothing like him, that boy saved half of the street, he did, calling the alarm, and the way he rushed into that burning house after the Miller twins, oh, I thought he was a goner for sure but he did save them all, even the cat. Don't ever let anyone tell you he isn't a decent man, you hear? Frank is a fine lad, his mother would've been proud, had she lived to see the day!"
Harry did return home before sunset this time around and remembered to keep his porch lights on, but a sinking suspicion still lingered on his mind. There were too many coincidences that haunted him like the torn pieces of a trawl net dragging on the seafloor and leaving clues for him to follow.
Frank couldn't be... And yet, it was such a comfortable thought to fall back on. A wanted one. Something about that impossible idea seemed right, for all the improbable reasons, save one.
Snape was supposed to be dead. Dead and mourned and posthumously pardoned by the Ministry, Harry had made sure of it.
They never did recover the body from the Shrieking Shack that May as they honoured the dead. Harry spent the summer wondering if the surly sod did survive after all, if he had a well-deserved vacation somewhere in Greece with plans never to return to Wizarding Britain. And if anyone could do it, Snape certainly was the right sort to try.
And yet, now, there was Frank. Frank, who ran a pub called "The Pub". Frank, who served his perfectly-poured pints and Nearly-Bloodless Marys and told folks to get the hell out if they couldn't pay. Frank, who hated the tourists. Frank, who was now, apparently, Harry's neighbour in Greater Morrow.
How many around here knew him, really knew him, Harry asked himself. Perhaps they all did. How awkward would that be! A group of Muggles who admired a lauded local hero far more than they would ever worship the cult of Harry Potter.
It seemed far too good to be true.
*
"Considered by many to be a living fossil. Though technically a shark, it swims like an eel, hunting prey with 300 needle-like teeth."
A description of a Frilled Shark, found around Devil's Spine in Dredge
Harry turned the corner and approached the pub, which had finally opened, but an uneasy feeling made him pause: it seemed too crowded, too noisy, too... shrill. Tourists, perhaps?
"Hey, over here," the unmistakable grating screech echoed, disturbing every corner of the pub, "What does it take to get some service around these parts?" A snap of a well-manicured hand and an impatient tap of a heel concluded the spectacle. "A gin fizz, will you, and it better be shaken and chilled!"
Oh no, it's Rita Skeeter. What is she doing here?
"What are you having - hey," Skeeter turned to her companion, a stout older gentleman with a camera. It was a magical camera poorly disguised as an antique! With just enough time, Harry ducked and peered through a small front window to keep an eye on the situation.
Her companion drew himself up to a mere five feet, peered over the counter and declared: "Soda water. With lime and bitters."
"Ugh, really?" Skeeter scowled. "Spoilsport."
"One gin fizz and one soda water with lime and bitters," Frank summarised, smooth and unimpressed. He took his time scrutinising the visitors and was in no hurry to start pouring drinks. Skeeter's lackey grunted and settled on a stool at the counter, while Skeeter herself perched with her sharp talons clacking impatiently against the wooden surface. "Let me see what I can do for you."
Harry peered through the gap in the shutters and groaned, almost feeling the wave of utter disgust from where he stood. He contemplated counting down from five until the inevitable explosive encounter concluded, likely not in Skeeter's favour. Frank didn't strike him as someone to suffer fools gladly - of that, he was certain.
But that aside, what on bloody earth was Skeeter doing here, in Greater Marrow? This couldn't be a mere coincidence! It was far too convenient. So she must be hunting for something major — a juicy story, probably about Harry. But how did she even know his whereabouts? Only Lavinia Lawson knew his current address, even Ron and Hermione were instructed to use their Patronuses for urgent matters, not an owl.
"Oh, my goodness," Frank's acidic reply resonated through the pub, as he gestured to the shelf behind him, displaying a paltry selection of rum and whiskies, along with unlabeled bottles of various brown, amber, gold, and honey liquids that only he seemed to know how to identify. "It must have slipped my mind. We are completely out of gin. I could, however, I can spare some soda water. With bitters. On the house. Would you like one or two?"
Rita Skeeter's talon tapping intensified; the tension in the room became palpable. "How convenient," she spat. "Don't bother!" With a huff, she turned on her heel and flipped her hair back over her shoulder, addressing her companion. "Now, would you look at that? How pitiful. The poor savages scattered around this briny wasteland do have some sort of spirit. Pity that it's not the drinking kind." She sighed dramatically and produced a long quill out of her flared sleeve. "Oi, you there," she gestured with it, "Since you insist on being the current village idiot, fetch me one of your Bloodless Marys — how quaint, but that will have to suffice — and be quick about it, will you?"
A single slam of a wet rug on the countertop never sounded so sharp, like a crackle of distant lightning. "Get. Out."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Out." Frank spat, his voice low and eerily gentle.
"What did you say?"
"I'm afraid I'm flat out of patience today, Madam. There just isn't any left. Not for sugary gossip. Not for brainless snobs. And certainly not for an overdressed mannequin with the brains of a calcified snailfish and the attitude of a cranky toddler. If you think I'll tolerate your type's buffoonery in my establishment, you are very much mistaken. Out!"
"Madam Skeeter," her lackey suggested gently, "Maybe we should just leave. We have other leads, and it's clear no one but the locals would find this place hospitable."
"Oh, very well." Skeeter drew herself up to her full height, pursed her painted lips, and tossed her mink stole over one shoulder, inspecting her fingertips as if they were stained with something greasy. "What a waste of time! We won't stay a second longer. Let that be a lesson to you! In the future, if you care about keeping this place alive, you really ought to consider manners. You'll catch more flies with honey, darling!"
"I am not in the habit of wasting supplies," Frank intoned. "Especially on a nuisance like a horsefly in a high-collared frock. Buzz off."
Harry snorted, recalling the image of Hermione holding a jarful of Rita Skeeter trapped behind thick glass. Horsefly, indeed!
"Now, I never..." Skeeter tucked her quill behind her ear and reached for her sleeve. "The plebs have no manners these days."
Frank squared his shoulders and continued polishing an empty glass. "Will that be all, Madam?"
"Not quite," she produced two gold coins out of her purse. "You do need something for your trouble, don't you? All the locals around here are in such terrible need of funds, poor dears. Everything is in such a state of disrepair. It's rather pathetic. So, how about I set these down, and you tell me all about any young men who may have passed by or perhaps settled here? Does that ring a bell? Ah, yes. This one is a strapping young lad, for certain. Those eyes alone! A green-eyed heartthrob, with Quidditch-toned thighs to die for, if I may say so. Shame about the glasses, and the hair."
Frank's eyes narrowed.
Harry growled in frustration. That nosy beetle of a witch was determined to hunt down yet another juicy Harry Potter story. She always did. She just had to come here, snooping and sniffing, all the way from Wizarding London, just for a chance of a sordid, scandalous tale to spin in the Evening Prophet. Why, he'd rather traipse up and down that morbid marsh the locals warned him about than let her get a hold of him now! Frank better not be the gossiping type. Oh, please, do keep your mouth shut, Harry thought. Do you even know what you're dealing with? She's the absolute worst!
"I'll have you know, seventy is about the average local age around here," Frank said, unimpressed. "And the last strapping lad I saw today doesn't have much hair on his head. He limped all the way from the docks in his finest neckerchief and with his best dentures, and not much else — Wee Willie isn't fond of covering up. He sold me a basketful of cusk eels — squirmy buggers — for the evening stew for sixpence each and I told him to keep the basket. He needed something, you know, to cover up his remaining upstanding appendages. His name is Captain William Worthington, by the way, of Worthington Sailors, and none of the sailors in question are fond of visitors either. In fact, none of us here are. Feel free to draw your own conclusions from here on. By the way, Willie will be back for dinner shortly. Likely without his neckerchief this time."
Whew, Harry sighed, relieved. He leaned back against the outer wall of the pub and peered at the disgusted visitors. Frank was a lifesaver. Harry should've known he wouldn't like Skeeter any more than Harry tolerated the sorry witch.
"We're leaving," she declared sharply and huffed her way past the pulled-out seats to the front door.
"You ought to look into Devil's Spine for your next stop," Frank informed her curtly, "their frilled shark is to die for. So is their savage barracuda. You may find them more suitable to your... extravagant tastes than chasing after local youths. Aren't you a bit too old for that, Madam?"
For a second there, Skeeter looked as if she was about to reach for her wand, and Harry's breath hitched. Watch out, Frank!
Frank rather deliberately fondled an oddly shaped bottle of something that shone amber in the right light. That bottle, unlike the other ones, actually had a label with a dragon on it. Harry peered at the flask, recognizing the familiar shape and the orange label. Ogden's Old Firewhisky! Can't be anything else. Bloody hell, Frank is definitely not a muggle, that's for sure.
"Goodbye, madam," Frank said pointedly, and the front door to the pub suddenly opened as if pushed by an invisible hand.
"Hold this!" Skeeter thrust her ornate disaster of a handbag at her companion, already holding a giant camera as well as the lights. "We're done with this wreck of a town, it's obvious no sane wizard would ever stay here. The sardine stench alone! Ugh."
Rita’s heels clicked across the cobbled road with the short photographer's shuffling steps behind her.
"Safe travels," Frank intoned, and as soon as Skeeter and her companion were out of earshot, motioned for Harry to come inside before closing and locking the door from the inside. He drew the curtains shut for good measure and Harry couldn't help but take one last peek: what if Skeeter happened to return?
One long arm yanked Harry back from looking under the curtains.
“Is it too much to ask for discretion? Have you thought of not announcing your departure for the flock of reporters to follow suit, or do you enjoy the attention, hm?”
“Look, I don't like it any more than you do. I’m sorry you got caught up in it. Thank you for not telling her about me, though.”
Frank's lips thinned. “I doubt she's gone for good. Her kind always comes back to skulk around. I wouldn't be seen or heard for the next few days if I were you."
Harry shuddered, staring at the door. "So, did you mean it about Willie?" he asked. "Shouldn't we expect him by now?"
"Absolutely," Frank deadpanned. "Luckily for you, Wee Willie is off since Mrs Herrington next door had a hankering for Infernal Eel, and he, in his boundless generosity, volunteered to take his boat over and find her 'the finest specimen she ever laid her luscious lips upon'. He has a soft spot for her, I suspect, and, from what I can tell, the feeling is mutual."
"Aw," Harry smiled. "Good for them. Oh, by the way, have you got something to eat?"
“Indeed. Would fish and chips do?” Frank offered, "Or would you rather try your luck with the cusk eel stew?"
"Um," Harry peered at the steaming pot out back. "What's the fish in the fish and chips again?"
Frank flashed his teeth. It couldn't possibly be called a smile. "Just the fillet of an All-Seeing Cod," he said. "You have nothing to worry about, I removed the heads as I gutted them myself just this morning."
"Ugh," Harry made a face, uncertain whether the man was joking but quite sure of it all the same. "Make it more chips than fish, please. By the way, I'll take that soda water if you're still offering it. Is it still on the house?"
"Certainly," Frank's mouth twitched again. Was that a smile? Perhaps it was. Huh, didn't know the surly sod had it in him, Harry thought. And before he could voice it aloud, Frank followed up with a tiny phial which he tipped ceremonially over the glass as one would tip poison: "Bitters?"
*
"Staring outwards, unblinking. Eyes borrowed from a larger being but not the mind to process what it sees." A description of the All-Seeing Cod, an aberration caught around the Marrows in Dredge.
“What would I possibly have done to deserve such thorough scrutiny, Mr Evans ?” Frank set another pint in front of Harry, just out of his reach. Harry was beginning to think that was quite deliberate: perhaps Frank liked watching him strain to reach it. Maybe he just wanted to see Harry suffer. Maybe he was into that sort of thing, in a kinky kind of way, and that was his manner of flirting. Who knows? Did Harry completely miss the clues though if he was into that sort of thing? Ouch.
"What, Grinning Gar got your tongue?"
"Er, what's a Grinning Gar?"
“You don't want to know about that particular aberration, trust me."
"Huh. That just makes me want to know more. And wait a minute, no, I wasn't watching you. I was just — looking that way."
"I'm quite aware when I'm being ogled. And you were — in fact — ogling. For the past hour. My ears burned all evening, and you still look like a lost scouring bass nose-to-nose with a voideye. What on earth mesmerised you so?”
Harry rubbed his clammy palms on his second-best pair of jeans and decided not to admit to anything quite yet. "Well, maybe I like the way you pour drinks. It's — rather mesmerising. You've got that steady grip. Er. By the way, have you got any of yesterday's chips? I’m starving.”
“You're always starving. First, you'll explain yourself properly, and then, maybe, I'll have a proper hot meal ready. Will wreckfish pie do?”
“Sure. Er, well. I heard a rumour about you.”
Frank snorted. “In this town? Absolutely scandalous. So, who was trying to play Matchmaker Millie this time? Was it Mary En-Bee herself or was it Agnes, well?”
"It was Aggie." And what was the rest of it supposed to mean? “Er, it's not that kind of rumour, by the way!” Was the rumour true? Was Frank the eligible bachelor, the prime catch of the day, a fine option... for, apparently, any other eligible bachelors in the vicinity. Huh, how does that even work in a town this size, they did say odd things about sailors, but statistically, Frank may be a tad out of luck.
“Ah that's settled then, I shall stop clutching my proverbial pearls any second now. What did the old crow say?”
“Well, it was mainly about your dad, to be honest.”
Frank’s expression dimmed, and Harry suspected he was treading disturbed waters. “What did Agnes say about my late father in particular?”
"Er, I just know that your dad got into the drink a few times. And that he wasn't a nice man."
Frank stared at him, expressionless. "Is that all?"
"It is." Harry studied Frank's face cautiously for any sign of anger, or worse, hurt, but Frank's face was carefully blank.
Finally, thin lips twitched. "Not much of a gossip if you ask me."
"Well, true. So, what was your mum like? Was she a witch? That thing you did with the door? Did you get that from her?"
Frank turned on his heel and went on to fetch a plateful of something temptingly golden-brown, with steam gently rising from its surface, looking more delicious than something named wreckfish pie had any right to be."
"Well, all right then," Harry reached for a fork. "So if your mother was a witch - and I'm not asking, mind - but if she was, why would she ever put up with a horrible brute like what I heard your father used to be? And, for that matter, if you took after your mum, why would you? Couldn't you just, you know, snap?"
"'Snap'?" Frank asked cautiously.
Harry motioned with his wrist as if mimicking the swish and flick and snap of the invisible spell. "Yes, snap. And voila! Problem solved."
"I... see. Well, I'm afraid it was a bit more complicated than that."
“How?”
Frank drew a breath, and Harry fully expected him to change the topic, but instead, he continued, softly and just as expressionless as if they were discussing the weather. "If it escaped your notice, some people are utter shipwrecks, and others, well, let's just say I'd rather aim a Lumos Maximus at a starved miasma in the middle of the ocean than ever face my father with a drink in his hand. Luckily those chances are slim: besides, hell is not on my list of places to visit this winter, no matter how cold the coast gets in December." Frank pursed his lips and straightened out his apron. “Enough of that. Do you still want those chips? I'll fetch a fresh batch,” he said as he turned and walked back into the kitchen.
At least one thing was clear to Harry, Frank was a wizard. He might as well have admitted it right there and then. But that didn't explain any of the rest. Who was he? Really. What was he doing here, in the middle of nowhere if he wasn't escaping the perils and wonders of the magical world he couldn't quite fit into as a squib?
Sometime later, with a steaming hot basket in front of him, Harry tested the waters once more. “So, um, how did you know who I was right away?”
“I do know who you are. You’re the pest who keeps wasting my time and my patience with inane questions.”
“Ha, ha,” Harry rolled his eyes. “And still you never said anything. About me. To Skeeter, I mean. Thank you. The rumours must be true; you are a hero!”
“Hm, how egotistical of you to assume the world revolves around you. She said nothing about looking for you in particular. And your eyes aren't even that green.” Frank peered at Harry. "Clearly you haven't seen a voltaic grouper on a moonless night; now that's a spectacle."
“Ugh. Stop changing the subject," Harry said. He chewed on another chip, and they stared at each other like two poker players not quite ready to end the round. Finally, Harry gave in like a reasonable adult, something which Frank clearly was not. “So? Are you really queer and looking, or were you just pulling my leg?”
Frank's eyes widened and there was that one rather awkward pause between them as their gazes met, and just as Frank opened his mouth to reply, the door of the pub swung open with a loud clap, and the rowdy bunch of fishermen spilt into the room, spreading the scent of fresh sardines and seawater. Wee Willie was in the lead this time, and Harry wisely chose to dive for the reasonable safety of the table in the far corner.
*
"A slimy creature, tainted with the silt and much of the seabed." - A grey eel is a fish that can be caught in the Marrows in Dredge.
As the night fell, Harry prepared to go to bed when he heard a stray owl tap on his window. He should have cancelled that Prophet subscription a month earlier. He left no address on file and the delivery owls relied on a spell for their routes which humans couldn't easily follow, but one could never be too careful! He had hoped that he had seen the last of the deliveries, but apparently, the Prophet's owls did not get the memo. And so, once again he groaned and rushed to pick up the folded newspaper, reluctant to leave anything with a moving photograph lying around for the passersby to find. He unwrapped the photograph-free freshly printed paper and instead found himself staring at the front page headline with his name.
"HARRY POTTER, A RECLUSE ON THE NORTHERN COAST? MORE LIKELY THAN YOU THINK."
Of course, the article was Rita Skeeter's finest creation so far, rife with unfounded speculations and scandalous innuendoes from the first sentence to the last. The crux of it suggested that Harry, under the guise of someone named Ferdinand Fisher and with the help of a hefty supply of Polyjuice, was now operating a disreputable establishment in a near-deserted coastal village. The piece depicted a den of vice, with a crew of sirens catering to every conceivable desire, from clandestine rendezvous in the shadows to the flow of unlicensed alcohol on tap and the smuggled contraband out back. From 'amorous seamen' to 'sea-green absinthe', the salacious, sensationalist drivel had it all!
"Incendio!" Harry exclaimed, tearing himself away from the article halfway through, lest his blood pressure soared even further. "What a load of rubbish! Ferdinand Fisher? Ha!" No sailor around here would take that seriously. Among John and Jim, Ian and Jess, Sam and Jack and Ida (at least judging by the front runners of the axe-throwing leaderboard on Frank's far wall,) only Frank and Wee Willy and Harry had the longest names in town, and that's just how it was in Great Marrow.
"Hmm, I must ask Frank if he is running a different kind of illicit business," Harry mused aloud. "The papers seem to think that's the norm around the coast, I reckon, so it's worth a laugh." He hadn't noticed anything particularly scandalous except for a chicken coop, but that didn't mean it couldn't exist. If anyone in the village were to run a shady establishment, like a brothel, it'd be the one serving alcohol, right?
Harry chuckled at the preposterous idea, but he also sighed in relief. At least Skeeter wouldn't be bothering them anytime soon, now that she got that dreck out of her system.
*
"Hull damaged. Blackmouth Salmon landed on deck,"
Dredge, a summary of an encounter with a non-Aberrant waterspout.
"So," said Harry, "More honey cakes?"
"I'll have some, dear," Aggie smiled, delicately placing her teacup on the slip of folded newspaper Harry once used for packing but now used as a coaster. "Now that's a fine use of this summer's batch, that's for sure. Don't worry, there's plenty of honey to go around, my hives are filled to the brim. If you need more, just say so."
"And what a wonderful idea it was, a housewarming tea, rather splendid, don't you think?" Mary 'En-Bee' chimed in. (Harry wasn't quite sure what the mysterious 'En-Bee' meant, but he was starting to suspect it was in fact an N and a B and there was a mysterious story behind Frank naming a drink after her.)
"Anyway," he said, "you were just telling me about Frank's folks, don't let me interrupt."
"Well, S — so Frank's — father, as you know," Aggie stumbled back into tale-telling, "He passed away over one harsh winter and Frank's mum, poor frail dear, was not far behind him. Good thing Frank didn't inherit his constitution from her — he did get her good looks though, and her patience with a sewing needle — but anyway, he took over the house and kept it going. He even asked us to keep an eye on the place for him while he was away — we always went on our evening walks to the river and back so it wasn't out of the way. Mind, he had a job somewhere up north — was it in Scotland, dear? Ah, yes, must've been — but he always came back for Christmas. Oh, do you remember those chocolates he brought for us a few years back, Mary? Weren't they just splendid?"
"Yes, love, they certainly were delicious. It's so hard to find proper Blackcurrant Creams these days."
Mary was introduced to Harry as Aggie's partner-in-crime, and that seemed telling. She appeared thoroughly muggle, mentioning several tales from her youth at the Holy Cross Academy, though it didn't stop Aggie from cracking up an occasional witchcraft joke in her presence. Between Aggie, a squib, and Mary, and with every colourful sailor and fisherman from here to Gale Cliffs firmly in Mary's shoes, it certainly seemed like this settlement had never seen Floo powder in any fireplace in town. Among them, Frank excelled at pretending to be one of the locals. He poured drinks with the practised skill of a bartender, wiped the counters by hand, and even counted the money in the till the muggle way — Harry once stayed in his pub almost until sunset to watch him do so. Aside from Harry, Frank was easily the youngest man in town.
Speaking of Frank, where was he? Harry, fumbling far too nervously than he had any right to be, did invite him over for tea yesterday. He had just finished unpacking and thought it would be a good occasion to welcome his new acquaintances and neighbours (which mainly meant Frank and Aggie so far, though Aggie and Mary seemed to be a package deal, fair enough.)
"Well, enough of that pish!" Mary set her teacup aside, "This is an afternoon to remember, isn't it?" She pulled out a flask from somewhere near her bosom (Harry didn't look too closely.) "Brandy?"
"I wouldn't say no to that, especially if I'm letting someone else pour it, for a change," a low voice rumbled from the porch and Harry couldn't chase a grin off his face as he rushed to welcome Frank inside.
They had a pleasant chat, the four of them, sipping tea and stronger drinks, and enjoying the delicious honey cakes. Harry made sure to renew a heating charm over the plate now and then to keep them warm.
Aggie and Mary took some cakes home with them as they hurried out to check on Aggie's newly resettled bee colony — a fine swarm with a young queen whom Aggie affectionately referred to as Princess Waterspout.
Frank stayed, carefully observing Harry's recent efforts to make the cabin livable. His gaze lingered on the collection of books, and Harry couldn't help but speak up, even though he probably should have held back his tongue. "You remind me of someone," he confessed. "He used to be my teacher."
Frank raised a teacup to his mouth, the perfect cover to hide his amused smirk after a fleeting moment that Harry managed to catch it. "A terrible bastard, no doubt."
Harry straightened his posture. "He was the bravest man I knew. A war hero."
"War... Now that sounds rather ominous, perhaps best left for the history books." Frank replied, reaching for a honey cake. "It's odd how coastal life takes over ours. The sun rises, the sun sets, and the fog rolls in with it. Anything like wars rather fades in comparison. It's a blessing. Perhaps in a few years here, you might find that certainty as calming as I did."
Harry found reassurance in something they now both had in common in regard to Greater Marrow. "So, about that teacher of mine," he continued, "You're somewhat correct, he was a right bastard, yes. I thought so all along until I read a textbook filled with his notes from when he was a student. Mind you, from the way his notes sounded, he was a genius at Potions. I reckon I understood him a bit better after that. Especially right now." He dared to leave that obvious hint hanging in the air, looking up at Frank with a slightly faster heartbeat drumming in his ears. Frank met his gaze with his own and Harry allowed his smile that lingered all afternoon to just be. "I loved that book! Is it silly to have a crush on a book? It's silly, right? But I think that's exactly what it was, a crush. And we still hated each other, you know, but he saved me many times over anyway. I... I thought I lost him, right in front of me. And I never even had a chance to say thank you. For everything he did for me."
Frank's face was in the shadow, making it hard to read his expression, but Harry thought he glimpsed a glistening in his dark gaze. Frank neither confirmed nor denied anything of what Harry just shared. He leaned forward over the rickety table and murmured, "You're full of surprises, Mr Evans."
Harry laughed, feeling alight as the butterflies in his stomach. "Huh. Well, can't let you be the only one full of mystery around here, can I?"
Frank's narrow lips twitched, perhaps in amusement or even joy. "There's no mystery about it." He turned his hands, palms up, resting them on the table. "For you, I'm an open book."
Frank stayed past sunset until the outside was as foggy as black tea with a drop of milk, much like the one served in The Pub in the mornings. It was likely the time for the lighthouse beacon to be lit, and reluctantly, Harry stopped his latest tale of adventures. He volunteered to walk Frank back to the lighthouse. "Accio wand!"
"No need," Frank said, pulling out a sturdy-looking electric lamp from seemingly nowhere. The lens was large and round, and at some point, it must've been attached to the ship's bow. He flipped the switch and the lamp came on, a dimmer, smaller version of the lighthouse beam. "I do know my way back." He leaned forward at the threshold of Harry's house, but quickly pulled back as if he thought better of it, and instead reached out his free hand, clasping Harry's shoulder and squeezing gently. "Sleep well."
Harry stared out into the pitch dark of the usual foggy night, and for a second, he thought he could see a star shine through the ripple of cloud cover. It must've been his imagination, but then, from the same approximate direction, a beam of light spilt and began traversing the landscape, round and round, clockwise and slow. As steady as a clock hand. That meant Frank was home safely.
Harry let out a relieved sigh and rested his hand over the shoulder that Frank had touched just a short while ago while leaving. It felt almost like an awkward sideways hug, but there was only Harry there, standing in front of the vast unknown beyond his window.
*
"An odd mix of relaxation and frustration. Maybe I'll read it again someday." - a summary of 'Getting Over It with Mind and Body', a book in Dredge.
In the morning, Harry enjoyed a restful sleep and woke up to find the sun shining and the porch lights turned off. Odd, he thought he left them on last night, trying so hard to form a good habit.
Curiosity piqued, he checked the doorknob to make sure the front door was still locked. It was. He stepped outside onto the empty porch noticing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary until he glanced down. A small parcel wrapped in a piece of cloth that looked like a worn-out sail rested at his feet. Huh. A parcel, here? The plain package provided no clues as to its origin, and the town had no postal deliveries. Harry cautiously picked up the plain parcel and, after casting a quick detection spell that revealed no hexes or ill will, attempted to unwrap the mysterious gift.
Inside the package was a book, not just any book though. It was unlike any of the books on Harry's current bookshelf, not the peculiar manuals nor the play collections in a language he didn't understand. This book was plain and worn and had seen better days. "The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection," read the cover, with smaller text continuing, "by Professor Quentin Trimble". It was a familiar textbook — despite Remus' emphasis on practical applications of defensive spells in the classroom, Harry had read this book from cover to cover. As he turned to the first page, he saw that this copy, however, was the first edition, instead of the third, which he had read at school long ago. Flipping to the next page, he froze, unable to believe what he saw. Was this a dream? Was he still dreaming? Because none of this could be real!
"Property of the Half-Blood Prince," the page declared in cramped handwriting.
His heart pounding, Harry continued flipping through the book, and to his astonishment, every single page was black to the edges with notes! Spells, annotations, sketches of plants and creatures, various fungi and bones. Peculiar symbols and random musings inked long ago, preserved for posterity. Harry could hardly believe his eyes.
The Half Blood Prince's notes - so many of them. He clutched the book to his chest as if holding a precious artefact. He couldn't bring himself to read another line. He couldn't trust his legs to carry him; he just stood there in the morning sun, staring at the vivid blue sky and the sea, his vision blurred with emotion, scratchy heat reaching his eyes, same as the lump that formed in his throat. The moment he saw Frank — Severus Snape? Severus! — again, he knew he would have to embrace him tightly and never let go. This gift went beyond anything he had received before; it was everything. It was hope and trust and his wildest dream coming true.
Harry didn't begin reading until the wet spot on the first page, from a single tear that had slipped and reached the paper, had well and truly dried.
*
"A blustery wind screams through the cliffs, diving and turning. It passes over a large wooden ship at anchor, all flags filling suddenly. A skinless face appears on the fluttering fabric. A wail of terror rises from the crew." - The Gale Cliffs vision stone in Dredge.
"Red sky at morning," the sailors have always said, a phrase so ingrained in the Marrow's soul: in the salt and the soil and the sea. Yet, this storm arrived unexpectedly under the cover of night, denying the morning a chance to warn the waking village. With Severus' textbook left resting on the kitchen table, Harry had closed the shutters and kept his porch lights on throughout the day, not that it made a difference against the relentless wind and hail pounding his walls and roof. The lightning struck once, then again, intermittent and sudden, accompanied by a sound akin to the shattering of a brittle bone. With each strike, Harry's silent hope was that it spared the lighthouse.
By evening, the rain had eased, though the transition from day to night was almost imperceptible in the murk of the storm. Peering cautiously outside, Harry observed the rusty, low-hanging clouds, tattered and unravelling, drifting like the cast-off remains of a shipwrecked sail.
Apparently, it was still too early for the lighthouse beacon to be — oh, there it is. As if on cue, a beam of light sliced through the wall of downpour, briefly illuminating none of the things Harry cared to see in detail.
So Frank — or was it Severus? — did his job in the storm, and that brought Harry a measure of comfort. "I should go check on him," Harry thought. If the storm carried on like this for a second night, it seemed only proper to make sure that he had all the supplies and had someone around to help out in case of flooding.
Though impulsive, the thought settled firmly in Harry's mind. If Frank had the conviction to navigate the place at night with nothing but a small lamp, how bad could the short walk to the lighthouse be? Even with the storm and the rain and the occasional lightning. The fog had yet to roll in. Some of the houses were still visible and the path was clearly there. Decision made, Harry summoned his cloak and his sturdy boots, bracing himself for the howling gusts of wind and the frigid lashing of raindrops. He could do it! He couldn't wait to see Frank's face as he thanked the man for the precious gift. Such a sincere gesture had to be expressed as soon as possible. He really couldn't put it off. He needed to convey just what it meant to him, right now. Right away! Storm or not.
All he had to do, in theory, was to follow the cries of the seagulls, tracing their commotion to the source where it seemed at its loudest along the coast. It seemed simple, didn't it? He didn't even need to see where he was going all that much, even if the fog grew denser along his way there, as long as he made sure the next few steps didn't lead him dangerously close to the edge of a seaside cliff, or worse. And besides, he had Lumos and times like there were exactly what magic was for.
The fog enveloped him like spilt milk. On the first inhale, Harry was reminded of a splash of brine at the bottom of a barrel — the last of provisions on a ship that drifted off-course, but nothing human-made could describe its true nature. The fog reeked of dark things lurking beneath: of vegetation that never saw the sun, stretching along the ocean floor at the edge of the abyssal crevice. Of bones hunted and broken, of sea depths and of eternal decay.
Navigating through the fog while keeping his Lumos bright was surprisingly difficult. He stopped frequently, first to banish water drops from his rain-splattered glasses and then to apply a warming and then a drying spell on his socks. His toes turned numb from the cold far too soon, and the squelching mud somehow soaked through quality leather in no time, leaving him sopping wet.
The journey to the lighthouse was further than expected, not that he ever ventured this way at night. With every stride, mud weighted heavier and heavier, as soon as he stepped off the cobbled road, guided by the intermittent gleams in the distance and the ceaseless cries of seagulls along the shoreline to his right.
The distant light seemed so tantalizingly close now, almost within reach. And oddly enough, as he drew nearer, the light pulled back, a shimmering, iridescent enigma in the ever-present mist. The halo pulsated, just a few paces away into the fog, so close now, it danced, radiant and mysterious, lulling him with its shimmer. Compelled, Harry had to get closer to the source of this light. This glowing beacon represented everything he wanted to hold onto. His entire future was just beyond his reach, behind that halo of light, if he could only touch it, just a bit further now! Just another step!
He no longer needed Lumos, and he forgot all about the state of his soggy, frozen feet. The shimmering halo guided him and following suit, he stepped forward, into one puddle after the other. Puddles transformed into deep pools but even the sinking squelch of his boots in the slick mud didn't stop him from moving forward. Not long now! His journey was almost over. The rainwater rose steadily like the tide. First past his ankles and then reaching his knees — that obviously had to be an illusion because Harry was too far from the shore where the tide could rise this high or this quickly — why, he hardly walked a few paces forward since he left the house. The directions and the passing of time were irrelevant though, in the beacon's ever-present radiance. The mud gripped him tightly and yet he marched on. Another step, then another.
Time blurred. Harry's fixation didn't fade. If anything, it was all he could focus on now. It couldn't be far! The light from his beacon, that wonderful, beckoning shimmer was closer and closer still and slightly dimmer as he approached. It's been so close yet out of reach for quite a while, and he grew tired of reaching for it. What time was it? He must've been staring at the light for too long because the rest of the surroundings seemed so bleak. Shadows deepened around him, to the point where even the endless rumbling of the ocean was only the sound of blood in his ears. His senses dulled, perhaps by weather and perhaps by the mist itself.
As he pressed on through the fog, time morphed and bent around him. Was there a sunset at some point as he walked on and did he miss it, or was it just the storm's shadow up to its usual tricks? The boundaries between land and sea, night and day, mattered little here, much like the unknown just beyond his reach.
"Hello?" Harry called out, and his voice echoed, cautious and uncertain.
The fog was all around him, muffling sounds and shrouding the area in an eerie calm. A thought crossed his mind: I probably shouldn't walk any further, not until I figure out exactly where I am!
Wait, this is odd.
Didn't I have this thought before? Just a while back, but it must've not been important enough, since I am still walking. And wasn't there a path here once? It doesn't look like a road had been laid here at all. These patches of mud and grass...
How strange.
It's as if I'm in the middle of a marsh.
The distant cries, once resembling seagulls, adopted an unfamiliar timbre, echoing desperately and cascading into a muffled shriek. Was someone calling for help? Was someone lost out there in the fog? The voices seemed to drift further out to sea, a haunting, heartbreaking litany.
Harry pressed on ahead, stumbling, trying to pinpoint the source of the cries. Was someone drowning? The water was up to his thighs now, the frigid current made his steps unsteady.
It didn't matter! He had to help them!
Harry sped up, a lump in his throat heavy with worry. Someone kept calling for his rescue. Someone needed his help! Where were they? Where was the sound coming from? Everything was a blur: murky and dark, crowding around his dying Lumos. Elongated shadows swirled on the edges of his perception, moving almost like apparitions just beyond his field of vision. How long has it been? Where was the beacon?
Was that another cry for help? Right there? No, wait, over there! The whispers muffled it all, and the noise rose louder and louder, malevolent and taunting. More feral and more hungry than anything he expected here in the dark. It was all a blur but he could've sworn there was a movement, the outlines of shapes in the deep, a tint of green and red. Or maybe not, maybe it was just an illusion, these vicious and hungry whispers overhead, the sinking suspicion that he was watched by a hungry pack. The irrational fear of a yawning maw the size of a ship, rising up and ready to snap, shutting its jaws over him. The wand, tightly clutched in his hand, had mostly dimmed, its spell extinguished. Instead, a sense of unease gnawed at his awareness. He fumbled, struggling to relight the spell, and the fog, the dark, the chilling sea stretched all around him, warping his sense of time and self.
Was he wrong all along? There could not have ever been a lighthouse here, not this deep into the water and not with the current this vicious. It was just Harry here all along, one lonely soul in the dark, stumbling for millennia, walking, wandering, right into the jaws of a giant creature with a glowing tentacle for bait. His only purpose was to become prey to a larger creature, and the fog made him nothing but hunted flesh and bone, ripe for the taking at the sea's mercy.
Once again, a chilling whisper wove through the air: dreadful, menacing and mesmerising. The icy waves crept higher but he barely felt the chill. No wonder everything was such a blur! Where were his glasses? He suspected they had been swept aside by the waves long ago, lost when he tumbled halfway through his last lunge for the light. When was this? Why was he so calm about them gone? That didn't seem like the thing he would usually do. The immense struggle to shrug away his reverie and chase after that question was unsettlingly overwhelming, and so he returned to the current trance, letting the thought go like driftwood. Speaking of driftwood... He may have had a wand at some point — he had it still and it was a useless stick to be cast aside — he ought to let it go and see if it floats or drowns.
Wait! No! His wand had its use! Wasn't there a word? A spell? What was it? Ah, that's right —
Lumos!
A spark of light blossomed at the tip of his wand, its shimmering glow diffused by the fog. It wasn't nearly as bright as the lighthouse — ah, and there it was again, the lighthouse just up ahead, eternal and ethereal and radiant. It shone brighter than any Lumos he could produce.
The lighthouse — It was not a regular lighthouse, wasn't it? — the light sung to him, tinted an eerie crimson, veins pulsating within and flashing rapidly until he could no longer see movement but disconnected glimpses of himself. He pulled back but the light grew closer. The light grew dimmer and heavier, redder and angry than it had any right to be. It bore down on him and lunged, snaring him like a net cast out to sea, a malevolent force, spreading terror until it flooded like a surging wave.
Panic stung him, twisting his gut with an agonizing thought: was this Frank's doing? Was that what he planned all along? A dreadful sensation dawned and blotted out all reason and hope. Or perhaps it was simpler than this: Harry followed the wrong light all along, falling into the clutches of something he could hardly comprehend, fully warned and not paying attention.
"Severus! Help!" he called out. It was pointless: he was too far, too close to the sea, too consumed by the tide and the chill. The radiant, malicious glow engulfed him entirely. The marsh mocked in whispers and howling wind. The marsh had him in its treacherous embrace, the marsh swallowed him whole, the marsh was about to —
"Harry!"
The angry red shimmered, pulling back and readying for the second lunge and Harry braced himself against it, knowing it might be the last thing he ever saw. Suddenly, the veined shimmer parted, dazzled by something golden-green, and the magic made it shrink on itself and shift back. The creature coiled and glid and retracted. In its place, a brilliant golden beam emerged and cut through the mist. Instead of angry whispers, what remained was Frank's steadfast voice, something true amid the chaos of the sea. "Harry, hold on."
The arms that embraced him were warm and unyielding, grounding him and pulling him upwards toward the shore. He was gently turned to face the solid chest clad in the woollen jacket. It smelled like the same woollen jacket Frank was so fond of wearing at night. And to the side of him, in an unexpected direction and so far away, the reassuring rhythm of a smaller light danced in the mist: the true lighthouse, its beam rotating steadily like a clock hand and guiding the vessels lost at sea.
Frank's presence, his voice and his steady grip pulled Harry from his chilled stupor. He gripped back, clutching at Frank's hand and took a deep, panicked breath.
"Let's get you out of here before the tide rises," Frank's voice was raw and warm with emotion in a way that Harry had never heard before. "I have you — just breathe."
A radiant beam of light shone in Harry's face and with it, with Frank's reassuring hands on him, everything seemed just a bit more calm than before. His racing heartbeat hammered in his ears and the lingering tremors coursed through his entire body, but the shivers subsided and Harry knew it would be all right. It had to be. He called for help and Severus answered, as always.
"Severus," Harry addressed Frank, his grip tightening around Frank's wrists. "I knew you'd come. I knew it."
"I was nearly too late!" Severus — yes, it had to be him — yelled back. "You almost drowned, you moron!"
I did? "I don't even remember going toward the water — What was that?"
"A miasma. Young and unused to hunting large prey, fortunately for you."
"A —" Harry wasn't familiar with the being at all. "A m-miasma?"
"Yes, it's local to the coast. An unholy union of a jellyfish and a boggart, I suppose. They seldom venture inland but this one strayed from its usual currents."
"This one? Are there more?"
"Further out to sea, yes. They don't like warmth. Or voices. This one won't be back tonight."
"S' good. ... I —" Harry couldn't shake that alarming feeling that someone — something— was still watching them. Something enormous, lurking and hungry. "What else is out there?"
"Nothing that will harm you tonight," Severus, with Frank's face, but Severus' mannerisms and his steady grip shrugged, holding Harry firmly up, lifting him to shore, and casting a series of spells until Harry felt warmer and drier. Until he realised just how cold he'd been all along. "As far as I know in any case; I was raised just up this river from here." Severus paused for a beat. "At least as long as you don't stray from the shoreline."
"Thank you."
"Stop squirming," Severus' hands were under his jacket, Harry realised, spreading healing warmth with a non-verbal spell. "Worse than an infernal eel, I swear!"
Harry had to hear the answer to his question though. He willed himself to keep still through the last round of shivering and held on tight as Severus steered them across the rain-drenched hillside right below the lighthouse tower. "Severus. Is this really you?"
The man nodded briefly, his sharp chin brushing against Harry's shoulder. His wiry arm held Harry up.
"Why would you hide? Are you — Which side are you really on?"
There was a deep sigh and Severus' grip on him tightened as they sped up. "After all I've done so far, isn't it obvious by now?"
"I want to hear you say it."
They paused. Severus' stare landed on him and Harry was mesmerised. Frank had Severus' eyes all along, didn't he? He certainly did.
"I'm on your side," Severus clarified. "Always yours."
Locked in a gaze that was so familiar despite the mundane features of a small-town barkeeper he'd just met, Harry let the truth sink in, believing it wholeheartedly. That's when it hit him all at once, the rush of realising just how close he came to losing this, all of this, how close he came to not only losing his life in the fog but also missing out on hearing Severus' confession.
He had to let Severus know — he had to try — had to express just how important Severus was to him and how unforgettable this moment was. Harry reached up, gently, leaning in, their foreheads pressed together, and breathed, sharing the warmth of Severus' breath and Severus seemed to have let him. Closer and closer they came, until they were both the same shape — a single collision in the deep of the storm, sharing rain-slicked skin and stirred up need, the fear of loneliness and the daring hope for the storm's passing.
As their mouths met — and they did, parting — Harry savoured sea salt on Severus' lips. The endless span of the sea was nothing compared to this heartbeat of calm amid the chaos. Harry held onto the feeling of peace. Gentle, soft, warm. For just a moment, they were in the centre of everything else: the true eye of the storm in the middle of an enraged hurricane.
"Let's get you inside," Severus whispered then. "Apparate," he commanded, and Harry clung tightly. Oh fuck, why didn't I think of that? I am such an idiot!
Laughter overwhelmed him, a stress reaction which was no more than an instinct and he let it wash over him because the joy was still true. "I could've Apparated here all along! I could have gone anywhere. I was a spell away from saving myself. I am such an idiot!"
"Indeed. Speaking of idiocy, can't you spend a day without chasing disasters?"
"Oi! I was trying to save you !" Harry argued but then found it more productive to cover that scowl with his own mouth, to share the warmth of his breath and speed up the argument toward the only one possible conclusion.
There was kissing then, as warm as the sun and as endless as the ocean. Harry was steered inside where it was lit and warm and his still-wet robes were peeled away until skin-on-skin contact became less of a lifesaving necessity and more of a need. For friction, for speed, for more.
Harry embraced it and let it swallow him whole. It was bliss.
Shivers rose and rolled over Severus' skin, like a sea-side worry of waves, and Severus, still Frank-shaped, stopped for a second and reached for a narrow flask, sipping something as quick and as routine as a daily medicine.
Polyjuice, Harry guessed. Has to be. "You don't need this," he placed a hand over Severus' wrist. "Not with me."
He faced the dark gaze, and those narrowed, colourless eyes were more unsure than he'd ever seen them. "You won't like what you'll see without it."
"I'll like you," Harry argued. "It's you. Let it be."
"You don't understand. The bite and the poison, that hasn't healed fully, and there was a fire."
"I know," Harry told him. "You're a hero. Again. I missed you. I want to see you."
"Very well. In about an hour," Severus said at last, "You'll have your chance."
And for a while then, there was the easy wait, the trace of Frank's rough beard against Harry's cheek, Frank's tanned, tattoo-free arms, strong and rough-fingered. Frank had fisherman's hands through and through. They were marked by a woven cord around one wrist and the watch with a cracked glass lens on a thick leather band around the other. Harry distracted himself by mapping out this body, this chest, and these hips against his own. He knew he could be quite persuasive when he put his mind to it and Severus may have understood that as well.
They were safe here. They had nowhere else to be. Time passed, slowly as fresh honey draining from its honeycomb into the jar, as aimlessly unpredictable as the storm raging outside. In the brightly lit room, the distant miasmas and mysteries and monsters of the deep were all far away from their private sanctuary. Above their sanctuary, the sky turned bright, and the storm was stirred with a wide beam, as it went around and around, once and twice and again, as slow-paced and as measured as the oar hitting the surface of the ocean.
Harry timed his touch, and then a kiss, once and twice and again, to the pace of the beacon as he nuzzled along the skin of Severus' neck. "What should I call you when we're alone? Severus? Frank?"
"Either." Severus' answer was broken by a deep exhale at Harry's attentions, and Harry remembered the exact angle, and the position of their bodies against one another. They fit so well. He kissed the sensitive skin and dragged his teeth over it. He'd have to repeat this all over again once an hour is up.
"All right. What should I call you when we're with others then?"
"Frank is the previous owner's late son, and it — ahh — happens to be my middle name," Severus breathed, his answer disrupted by Harry's caress and his breathing uneven. "It's on the title to the place and the forwarding address. Everyone's used to 'Frank' running the pub. As far as I'm concerned, Severus Snape is not the name worth holding onto."
"Wait," Harry had a different opinion on the matter, and he pondered the odd couple that took Severus under their wing. They must've known him for years. Decades? "Aggie and Mary — didn't they notice something strange?"
"Mary's face-blind and Agnes — well, the glamour only worked for a while but she did play along. She understands the importance of a fresh start."
"Ah. Good. So it's a fresh start you're after then?"
"Yes. Wouldn't you be?"
"I... I'm not you. But if it's that easy, well —" Harry pulled Severus' hand into an entwined hold. "In that case: hi!"
"Hi?" Severus restated. It was a question, not a greeting.
"Yes. Hi!" Harry smiled. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Harry."
It was a childish gesture but he hoped it worked to ease the tension between them. Severus seemed unsure still. He glanced down at their joined hands and winced at the sight of his half-pulled-up sleeve and the bare forearm as if the traces of the Mark were showing through and haunting him even now. "If only it was this easy. But I'm all out of second chances, I'm afraid."
"Rubbish," Harry said. "You can have mine. I'll keep your secrets if you want me to. I'll give you a chance any day — no question about it. You kind of... keep saving my life."
Severus looked as if he was considering the offer. "I'll keep that in mind," he finally answered. And that was as much as Harry could hope for.
"Good. You do that."
Severus tilted his head and squeezed Harry's hand back in a parody of a greeting, pressing it back into the fabric of the sofa in a way more suitable for a longtime lover than a new acquaintance and rolling them into a dizzying dive. "Have I told you I'm rather fond of your recent surname choice?"
"So am I," Harry smiled. "It's only fitting. Simple and plain. The fog of obscurity might just suit us both."
"Given your recent experiences with the fog, I'd rather you stay right where you are."
"Ha. Alright."
"I mean it. You are to remain right here, inside and under my supervision until I can trust you to make rational decisions."
"Ha! Thanks. I'll think about it."
Severus nuzzled Harry's ear until it prompted a gasp. "You do that," he whispered and it sounded vaguely like a threat to follow through.
They stayed there on the sofa in the centre of a sparsely furnished living room, surrounded by book stacks and dried-out cups of tea. Harry claimed Severus' lap, still unsure whether Severus would let him wait it out, but the narrow flask was set aside on the shelf out of both of their reach and the time was passing so slowly, measured with each turn of the beacon completing traversal of another full circle, then another, as witnessed through the row of windows, each a perfect circle like a porthole, all around the perimeter of this strange round room, with the winding staircase leading up to another, smaller, level.
There were twelve windows, in all, marking the angles like a giant clock, which further completed the illusion of the time measured by the rotating beacon right above them. On and on and on.
Harry embraced the pace of it like embracing the waves rocking the boat back and forth with every step forward, like a sailor finding his sea legs, accepting the weeks-long wait to the distant shore, like a traveller sailing past the horizon and past the edges of the known maps into the deep unknown, drawing on faith and on courage and his sense of adventure.
They kissed again, and halfway through the kiss they pulled apart, as the first changes began to appear. Traces of smaller scars formed and thickened over Frank's cheek and jaw — they showed up first, fading into view. Frank's wiry hair lengthened and uncurled until it hid most of the ravaged features from the top of his head to the base of his neck. Frank's tan paled into Severus' sallow skin that Harry remembered all along. Severus' nose and the stare remained.
"It's almost done," Severus warned him.
"I know," Harry smiled and slid his arms around Severus in a loose embrace. "Let me see. Please. I missed your real face."
"You must be more blind than I thought."
Harry answered the contrary sod with a kiss and traced the edge of Severus' front teeth with his tongue, daringly, watching them shift and misalign like seabed rocks turning with fly-away, fast-forwarded centuries. Generations sped up in a blink of an eye that may have seen the entire species of sea beasts die out, bones crushed and ground to dust and sand, to be replaced by others in turn.
Harry's sense of time was still all out of whack but it was all right. Severus was right here.
"There you are," Harry whispered, taking in the familiar features. "So good to see you." He swept back those dark strands of hair, longer than he remembered, as they spilt forward to cover the side of Severus' face. There was scarring there, thick and ropy and discoloured. The visible tear by a giant maw was what he expected to see, but also there was a mangled earlobe and the uneven hairline raised wider by the burn that continued down past Severus' collar. The back of Severus' left hand had the same uneven texture as the left side of his jaw. Harry slid his fingers to cover it gently with his palm. "Fire?" he breathed.
"Yes."
"What happened?"
"That beast's venom introduced a bit of chaos to my magic. I was on the mend and thought I could control it. I was wrong. Fiendfyre was not something I expected to manifest in my sleep."
"I'm so sorry."
Severus' left hand, the burn-marked one was steady. "I did my best to reduce the damage. Not that there were many nearby but no one died. I couldn't do much about the property." A wary look met Harry's eye. "Or my books."
"You had a library," Harry breathed. As an owner of one, he felt a pang of loss for Severus' possessions. Of course, he did.
"I did — I do. I believe you're the current owner of it."
Harry smiled thinking of the single textbook left back in his house. Severus gifted him the most precious thing he had: he had set his entire self down on Harry's doorstep that morning. Harry wouldn't take it for granted.
They kissed again, gentle and warm, and their embrace was a frantic, desperate thing. Harry dove into it and surrendered. Like a shipwrecked sailor dreaming of river water with the ocean salt still coating his face and his lips. Like a sea beast loving a shipwreck. Tangled and clinging like the tentacled creature upon the bow and the stern of a vessel long deprived of its mast and its crew.
Harry leaned in, really allowing their mouths to meet, letting Severus' tongue explore and pulling Severus' shirt up to allow his hands to cover more warm, sensitive skin.
It worked, it really worked. "Ahh."
"I want to see you like this when we wake. Tomorrow. In your bed."
"Presumptuous, aren't you?" Severus rumbled.
"Mm-hmm. Have you got a bed? We should find you one."
"You really ought to worry about more pressing matters at hand." Severus let his hands roam over Harry's body and it was so difficult then to pay attention to his words. Harry had tried so hard to insinuate himself well and truly, in Severus' hold: he would get under Severus' skin if he could and stay, like a sea beast in the deep dark ocean. Like the lingering warmth of a healing spell. Like a never-ending enchantment. Like salt. Like sand.
He was so pleased to pull back and witness that mesmerising stare, as Severus gave in and purred: "What makes you think we'll make it to bed at this rate, hm?"
That plan was nothing short of brilliant in Harry's book.
*
Tasting tongues writhe wildly around sets of yellowed, crooked teeth. The top row are flattened like human molars. - a description of a Snag Squid (Dredge.)
When Harry awoke, he was greeted by a cascade of black: Severus' hair spilt over the pillow next to him and draped over his shoulder. Severus' arm, marked with scar tissue, stretched across Harry's midsection and covered his own, fingers spanning over Harry's ribs.
The scar on Severus' arm was far more permanent than the Dark Mark ever was. Harry wondered if Severus preferred it this way. If he found comfort in its permanence. It didn't matter to Harry, this was Severus, all of him. He was whole, tangible and vulnerable, laid bare before Harry's eyes. A feast for his heart and soul. His own personal guiding light and his guardian. A sanctuary in one man.
It was odd, how innate and familiar It felt to nestle within Severus' warm embrace. It was as if they had shared this very moment many times before, perhaps in another realm, and another time, somewhere in the swirling enigma of the coastal fog. But today, the sky was clear once more, and sunlight streamed through the circular windows, the fresh daylight bringing clarity and focus to the prospects lying right within their grasp.
Severus stirred, nuzzling the back of Harry's neck and Harry wasn't to be outdone by an early morning dare — because it had to be a dare, wasn't it? — and so Harry answered by aligning their bodies, his back pressed closely to Severus' chest, their knees bent and slotted together, Severus' morning erection a suggestive pressure against Harry's backside.
Harry's teasing thrusts were insistent against Severus' bony hips, and Severus' knee insinuated just as persistently between Harry's parted thighs. "And here I thought you'd prefer waking up to a steaming cup of tea and an engaging conversation," Severus purred. "Alas."
"I don't mind the talking," Harry replied, attempting to move but halted by the firm touch of Severus' hands, a sensation both annoying and intriguing all at once. "As long as you — fuck !"
"What was that, hmm?" A teasing hand was so good at mapping out Harry's tender spots, while a warm mouth hovering over his ear created a different kind of delightful torture.
"If you need an explanation of 'fuck', you are a bit in over your head, Professor, aren't you?" Harry teased, he couldn't help it.
"Language!" Severus chastised, only to follow it up with a murmured appreciation: "Mm. Please, continue. We might just turn you into a seasoned sailor after all."
"Are you sure? We can always take it slow — if you'd rather."
"Ah yes. Let me summarise. A nice prr-roper courtship, is it? Poetic passions. Seaside strolls. A bit of blushing and flirting and flustering, followed by a solid round of some old-fashioned buggery —"
"I am OK skipping right to the last part!"
"Tsk. Without so much as a betrothal announcement? Scandalous!"
"About that," Harry laughed. "I kind of cancelled my Prophet subscription. We'll just have to make do without one. I am sure you'll improvise."
"Mm. Living in sin suits you."
"That's 'cause you can make churning butter sound saucy and sly."
"Oh?" Severus' mouth found Harry's neck and then the sensitive spot behind his earlobe. "Butter, huh? That's best left to the experts. For the record though," his hand slid down Harry's front under the woollen cloak serving as their blanket, to demonstrate the motion on the example of an appendage that was currently about as firm as a regular butter churn rod, "There is nothing boring about a good butter churn."
"Ahh-" Harry agreed, or rather voiced his immediate appreciation.
Severus' hand glided upwards and stilled, twisting on the downstroke, gripping tight. "With the right technique."
Harry settled into a slow rhythm, trying to keep up with Severus' strokes and for the life of him couldn't ever imagine having buttered toast without blushing ever again.
"But for the time being," Severus continued. "You may want to focus on the basics. You are surrounded by fishermen, are you not? Now, tackle maintenance — Lubricus! — is a fine skill to master." He punctuated the last line by tightening his grip around Harry's cock and what could've been the most nonsensical joke anywhere but here, was, in fact, just an excuse to writhe and moan, and show Severus just how he appreciated it all. Especially since Severus demonstrated his words with a swift touch just where it counted right now.
Severus was intent on either teasing Harry to death with his careful caress or killing him with his next unexpected attempt at humour. Who could tell? Is that how he always behaved in the early mornings when no one was awake enough to ever catch him in a moment of joy and contentment, when he was carefree and safe, within trusted company? It was anyone's guess what his next punchline might be, and trying to predict them was a bit like predicting seaside weather. So Harry gave into the flow, the banter, the unexpected warmth of their morning mood, and into Severus' determined touch, as his strokes grew hotter and slicker and faster yet. He buried his face in the worn velvet of his sofa, feeling rather self-conscious at being in such a wanton state at dawn, in the centre of a room filled with sunlight, with at least six of the twelve windows lacking proper curtains. It didn't help that Severus positioned them both so strategically that the secretive sod was completely in shadow and mostly under the cover of their makeshift transfigured bedsheets. He was hidden, all right, and Harry on the other hand was in full view, and Severus was rather determined to keep him that way, sunlight warming Harry's skin, even as he did his damnedest to keep Harry gasping and thrusting into his fist.
Perhaps he had a thing for testing Harry's patience and his limits — of course, he did. He was certainly succeeding now. So all Harry could do is hold on for the ride, as he couldn't help but admit that his body was studied like a well-oiled tool, categorised, put to the test and pushed to his limits with want. He accepted the challenge with an open heart, losing himself in Severus' hold and discovering all over again that wondrous feeling of being made anew. He felt mended, shaped, and crafted with the skill and care that, Harry could swear it, Severus reserved only for his most treasured of possessions. His books, his cauldrons and his alchemical flasks were the primary recipients of such intense focus. This was the level of scrutiny that Frank would likely reserve for dispensing his finest rum, such scrutiny that, in this place alone, might have only been bestowed upon the lenses, bulbs, and prisms of the beacon crowning their present sanctuary. If Harry's mind wasn't entirely ensnared far beyond rational thought right now, he might have even confessed to occasional but of envy toward the well-oiled gears and the complex machinery that kept the beacon lit and turning under Frank's — Severus' — care and magic. With Severus' firm hand and his steadfast dedication alone, it stood as the sole centre of Severus' life and his anchoring purpose.
And still...
"I'm on your side, always yours," Severus had assured him just the night before. Now, with Severus pressed against his back, enveloping him in both heat and desire, the message finally seeped into Harry's understanding. He's mine. He had always been right there.
Harry had been Severus' true purpose for so long, perhaps as long as he could recall.
So blindingly powerful that realization was, so astonishingly intense, it almost overwhelmed him whole. Harry tilted his head to the side and pressed his nose into the curve of Severus' shoulder, squinting against the golden sun. At last then, he let his straining, arched body be free — as the wave of pleasure slammed home, as inevitable as the morning tide.
Severus' touch glided over Harry's flesh, his quiet urgency of praise and frantic confessions etched themselves like enchantments beneath Harry's skin. And so, like a crimson-striped beacon at sea, Harry couldn't help but shine.
Sometime later, a knock on the door disrupted Harry's reverie while he watched Severus making tea in the small area of the kitchen. Severus stood there by the stove with nothing on except rather ragged briefs. Harry memorised where the scars on his back ended and clear skin began. It appeared Nagini's venom sensitized the skin on one side of Severus' body to prevent the burns from healing, and prompted a patchwork of thick scarring, unpredictable like a coastal map fading into the clear sea.
He could get used to the view.
A second knock followed.
"That'll be Agnes," Severus informed Harry as he summoned his robe. "She's probably wondering why I'm not in the pub making her usual coffee and it's all your fault!"
"I'll tell her to make her bloody own. You're needed here — hang on." Harry waited for Severus to throw his robe on and reach for his flask, before opening the front door and —
Harry was blinded by the flash of a camera and an infernal tapping of a Quick Quotes Quill. Bloody hell! That bitch never left him alone!
"Oh, dear me," Skeeter, grinning like a cat that ate the canary, pressed the door opened further and tried to force her way in. "Hello, love. Oh my! Is that a love bite, Mr Potter? How positively scandalous. And — Oh, my goodness!"
Severus, a pair of eggs in one hand and a sizzling skillet in the other, robe hastily tied and his eyes promising murder was not the best sight to encounter, from the looks of things, because even Rita Skeeter took a step back at that spectacle. "Mr — Snape?"
"Accio photograph," Severus spat. "Incendio! Finestra!"
At that last, the camera lens shattered into a million shards raining over the cobbles and Rita's companion let out a mournful sob. "Wait, you can't just —"
"You're trespassing," Snape informed them curtly. The crack of eggs in his hand echoed the scatter of broken glass shards. The egg whites let out a smouldering crackle as they met the hot oil. "You have thirty seconds to leave. And I'd suggest that your next penned dreck focuses on something far away from here since losing the last shred of credibility by reporting a secret affair between two war veterans is not something a witch with a yota of common sense or sense of self-preservation would ever try. It will bore your readers to tears, I promise you."
Skeeter stuttered as Severus' thunderous glare wilted her hovering Quick Quotes Quill faster than a drought hex. "Not that you're in possession of either." He turned. "Ten seconds. I must warn you, the security spells are my personal invention."
"Mr Potter," Skeeter scowled, "if you could just clarify your stance on—"
"Whatever the question was, we have no comment," Snape growled, overriding her, before slamming the door shut.
Harry let out a long breath and sank into the sofa.
Severus narrowed his eyes and arched one questioning eyebrow at him. "I take it you're still in touch with the usual pair of miscreants you called friends."
"Ron and Hermione. Well, yeah."
"Good."
"What do you have in mind?"
"We could use a Secret Keeper for the next few seasons. Granger would likely do an adequate job."
"Right," Harry said. "So, what should I tell them? About you, I mean. Or — us?"
Severus' mouth thinned as he considered. "You may tell them that your recent — partner-in-crime — and yourself are in desperate need of an urgent getaway. From the press, not from the authorities. You may also tell them Severus Snape says 'thank you', in advance." He glanced back and the storm in his stare calmed to a mere disturbance. "Unless, of course," he added softly, "you prefer to keep my identity a secret for the time being."
Harry grinned wide, facing Severus and taking the sight of him in. "Not a chance," he declared. "If you're sure that is," Harry added then, lightly.
"Should I not be?"
"Well, my reputation is already in tatters from Skeeter's latest creation, are you sure you want to be associated with such a shady sort."
"Oh no, I shall have to deal."
"Great," Harry beamed wide. "In that case, what are your thoughts on starting an illicit business in your pub while you're — dealing? I hear coastal brothels get the best Prophet coverage these days."
Smack! A wet towel lashed against his bare thigh. "Ow!"
Still, it was all worth it.
*
"A ship, tossed by waves in the night. Fog unfolds like a blanket from the deck, spilling across the ocean and crashing against the land. A distant lighthouse flickers a signal." - The Steel Point Islands' vision stone in Dredge.
A year from that fateful day, Harry would wake in the bewitching hour before sunrise, drawn by the enchanting dance of mist and light seen just beyond their lighthouse windows. As the first gentle rays of dawn painted the sky with hues of pink and orange, the fog would gradually disperse, revealing the stunning beauty of the coastal town shining with morning dew and bathed in golden light. Harry, still in awe of the dramatic shift, would savour this daily miracle. He never could grow used to the sudden switch between the midnight terrors of the vast and depthless expanse of the world teeming with unimaginable and hungry beasts rising from the deep, all banished away by daylight but only until the next night's arrival. Time after time, as the sun ascended over their home, Harry's awe at the charm of this coastal town, its special beauty, would reawaken. The serene scenery under the comforting light of day promised a future as boundless as the clear sky, a hopeful vision that Harry once never dared to think about.
He would have more important things to focus on today as well, not dwell on dreams or picture an occasional monster lurking in the deep: in that tranquil moment, Severus would stir beside him, and Harry would watch with a contented smile as Severus would blink himself awake. Right here, in his embrace, his partner would smile and all would be well. Their shared life would unfold, breath by breath, new and enticing, filled with magical potential. Eventually, the sheets would be playfully yanked as a dare and Harry would rise to the occasion with renewed vigour. He would turn, stretch out ever so teasingly, steal the sheets off the bed, and let his bare feet carry him to the window, into the morning light's embrace. The sea beneath would shimmer like a precious jewel, and whisper invitingly, beckoning him to embark on an unplanned fishing venture. Away and far beyond the horizon, beyond the crab pots in the shallows and into the deep dark expanse of the open ocean where discoveries waited for them, just beyond their reach.
These dreams of sailing together on a proper fishing vessel, chasing the wind and the sun, and casting their trawl net far and wide would linger in Harry's mind. Perhaps he could persuade one of the grizzled fishermen who were so fond of frequenting Severus' pub to lend them their ships for a day of adventure on the waves. "Wait a while," Aggie and Severus cautioned him time and time again, but what would be the use of that? After all, he already spent a year in this quaint little town, learning every corner and every path, every secret and every charm, and now, after all that, wouldn't it be time for a grand expedition? If only Harry had a fishing boat with a proper trawl net and enough of a fool's luck to spare, he argued, maybe after trying a few times, he would surely sweet-talk Severus, ever the contrary sod, into going out to sea: the next time if not the first time around.
Sure, it was proving to be a task in need of finesse and gentle persuasion, but Harry was determined to make it happen.
Watching the last of the fog fade away and leave the sea behind, Harry's silent promise to himself would remain the same — one of these days, they would sail together into the unknown, venturing as far as the lighthouse's beacon would guide them. We've been here for how long, there's no excuse to avoid an adventure! They would leave someday, until nothing here remained of them but a chain of happy memories, merely shapes in the deep of the eternal evening fog, and that thought was not a terrifying dream, but a simple fact of life.
Maybe the next year would be a year to explore the unknown. They could sail as far as the lighthouse's radiant beam could reach and for as long as daylight remained at their backs. And even after it faded, as long as the beacon stayed lit, responding to Severus' magic with its celestial-charged shine, Harry knew it would always guide them safely home.
Home! Their home. Here, in Greater Marrow. Such a novel thought it was: they would always have a home to return to. No matter how far the journey, and how dangerous the path, the safe harbour would stay, would endure. And until such an adventure, as Harry's days in Greater Marrow came and went, each one was marked with anticipation and joy. Magic wove around them and he couldn't wait to explore its wonders, hand in hand with someone he loved.
On that morning, Harry would turn to Severus, beaming at the sight, meeting Severus' gaze and rushing forth to give him a proper morning greeting. Their stares would lock and their hands would meet. They would forget their duties and their plans beyond the shared bliss of the current moment. For all the adventures awaiting ahead, It would turn out such a good day to simply stay in.
(A year from now, Harry would be loved beyond his deepest hopes, and that would be more than enough.)
All would be well.
Fin.