Dear Santa fic for Westernredcedar
Now that the reveals are up, I can post this little offering. I've revised it slightly from the original to reflect my own experience in Florence.
Title: Enchanted Italy Pairing/Fandom: Snape/Lupin, Harry Potter Rating: R Note: this is for westernredcedar. Happy Holidays! Summary: Italy is always the place where England sends its wounded to recuperate.
"You need to get away," says Minerva.
You have to agree. Dora's sacrifice saved your life (not that she should have been there at all, why risk another orphan?), but your spell control is shot and your wand arm trembles if you try to cast more than wingardium leviosa. Andromeda is so sunk in grief that letting her watch Teddy for a few weeks is a mercy, not an imposition. And Harry - even Harry can't change the laws against werewolves holding more than token jobs.
So you accept Minerva's offer of a month in Italy.
Italy. The all-purpose cure for damaged Englishmen. A holiday won't bring back what you've lost or make you employable, but four weeks in a sunny bedsitter in downtown Florence may be exactly what you need. If nothing else you'll eat well, and you need every extra ounce you can get.
The flat on the Via della Spada is small but clean, and surprisingly quiet. You quickly learn to work the controls on the kitchen appliances and how to use the bidet, and after a day or so you're exploring the city. Florence is so crammed with art that you have to take time off between touring each great museum or viewing each masterpiece, and you're glad of the gelaterie on almost every corner.
You're even happier to find the Mercato Centrale when you can't stand the thought of another day living on gelati and overpriced restaurant meals. It's a brisk ten minute walk from your flat, and it smells wonderful: meats, cheeses, fruit (dried and fresh), pasta, seafood, spices. Your Italian is limited but you find that gestures are a universal language, and soon you have enough food for a few days in your shopping bag. You'll eat well, and cheaply, tonight, and once you've eaten you can watch the Beeb on the satellite television that comes with your flat.
A handsome young couple strolls down the aisles ahead of you. She's small and bright-eyed and has a heart-shaped face that turns to look up every time her boyfriend opens his mouth. He's tall and lean-hipped and dark, with a hawk's profile and flashing black eyes. Your eyes fill at the sight of the love, the devotion, the sweet purity of young romance.
She looks like Dora. He looks like Severus. The one who loved you enough to throw herself in front of a spell. The one you didn't love enough to trust.
You close your eyes and disapparate. It's a miracle you don't materialize inside a wall.
*********
There are four suites on your floor. Three are tourist or long-term rentals, including yours, while the fourth is let to a businessman who splits his time between Firenze and Milano. You have the bedsitter, excited Muggles cycle in and out of the largest flat, and the businessman nods to you and says "buon giorno" as he heads out of the flat next door to be businesslike.
The flat around the corner from you has a tenant on a six month lease, but you never see him. Sometimes you hear movement in the common area or the hallway, but by the time you look out your door, whoever walks with a dragging limp has disappeared into the lift and is on his way to the street. You ask the landlady, but she shrugs and says only that an English gentleman arrived a few weeks before you did and paid cash - cash! So many Euros! - for a six month stay. It's not her place to know why he limps so badly, and as long as he doesn't make a noise or leave a mess, he's welcome to stay.
You shouldn't be curious, but you are. It's not as if you have anything else to do, after all, except wait for Andromeda's infrequent letters and take walking tours of the Boboli Gardens. Who is this man? Why won't he come out? It's September, and Florence is hot and sunny. The tourists have thinned out a bit and almost everyone is outdoors during the day, so there's no reason to stay inside. Is the smiling landlady going to find the Limping Man dead of the heat?
It's not worth thinking about. It's not. Except that your curiosity is roused, and you can't stop wondering.
Curiosity killed the cat, Remus. It's none of your business.
That doesn't stop you from listening for that distinctive tap-slide-tape-slide in the hall. You just hope that you'll see him before your lease runs out and you go home.
*********
You're at the Forno Top buying a loaf of panne toscano and a mini-gateau when he comes in.
He doesn't see you - it's a miracle he can see anything, with those black-lensed glasses. He wears a long raincoat and a soft felt hat pulled down over his face, and a muffler wrapped about his throat. He leans heavily on a cane with three prongs at the end, and his voice is a raspy whisper as he asks for una pizzetta, per piacere.
You can't see his face, and there's nothing off about his clothing except how unseasonable it is. But he's a wizard. You can feel it, the faint tingle of his magic, the long bulge of the wand that's concealed in a sleeve seam of the ridiculous coat that hangs about him like a cloak. He's a wizard, and he's English, and something about him is familiar, but what? Who is he? And why is he in Florence when every other British wizard is either at home rebuilding their world, or dead?
Black hair. That much is obvious, that and a pointed chin. His nose is long and might be hooked, but the black glasses ride low enough that you can't see the bridge. His hands are well shaped and would be graceful if they didn't tremble slightly as he passes over his money and accepts his purchases. His ears -
They never found a body. So much blood, but no body.
You deliberately wait until the man shuffles out before turning to stare. "Chi - "
The girl behind the counter shrugs. "He is inglese like you, signore. He buys food and pays, and I ask nothing. But I think maybe he is sick? His skin, it is giala, and his eyes have the blood. That is why he wears the glasses, maybe, his eyes are wrong? They weep in the light, or so Daniele at the salumeria says."
It's not him. He's dead. Harry saw him die. Stop it, Remus.
In England, you would have wondered if this was Lord Voldemort, somehow returned from the dead for the second time - yellow skin and red eyes, who else could it be? But Voldemort bore himself like an autocrat, even when Peter carried him. This man seems too frail, too humble.
Besides. Harry saw what was left of Voldemort there in that odd little afterlife that looked like King's Cross. There wasn't enough to remake a man, even using the Darkest of spells.
It's not Voldemort, and no matter how much you delude yourself, it can't be Severus. It's someone else. But who?
*********
You go about your business as the days crawl by. You eat, sleep, gain weight. You dream more about your son and less about your wife, more about the future and less about the past.
And if you still dream of Severus, Severus who never trusted you enough to share the burden, what of it? He might not have told you about his final mission for Albus, but you never asked. You let Molly shame you into listening to Dora's ranting, and when she told you that she was carrying a child you didn't want, you let Harry shame you into staying in a marriage that was doomed from the start.
Severus always said you were a coward, despite the ragged Gryffindor scarf you wore when it grew cold.
Severus was right.
*********
The neighbor comes and goes, and by early October you've had enough glimpses of him that you're certain you're not hallucinating. He's definitely a wizard, possibly an apothecary if his trips to the Officina Profumo-Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella are any guide. He's tall, and wears nothing but black or dark green, and his hair is straight and very, very dark. He always wears the dark glasses and the hat and the muffler. He always whispers.
Is the muffler to protect his throat, or to cover a wound?
You owl Minerva and ask if you can stay another few weeks. She says yes, and adds that Harry sends his regards. She also mentions, almost by accident, that they've had to commission a portrait of Severus because one never appeared in the Headmaster's office.
No portrait.
No body.
A dark-haired Englishman who never lets anyone see his face and covers his throat.
The letter crumples in your hand as you read it again and again. You take your first true breath since Moony woke in the cold room of the St. Mungo's morgue all those weeks ago.
*********
That Severus loved good Italian food was a secret he shared with few others. You found out the first time you spent the night at Spinner's End, the summer after the Triwizard Tournament, and found tins of crushed tomatoes and sprigs of basil and oregano charmed to stay fresh hanging in the pantry.
"My mother was half-Italian," Severus said as he measured pine nuts and salt and newly grated Pecorino Romano and a dash of olive oil into a mortar. "She taught me to cook."
"She did a fine job," you said as he ground the pesto with the same care he used to crush shrivelfigs for your Wolfsbane. "I never - "
"Every man should know how to cook. If he's straight, his wife will thank him, and if he's not, his lover can help him open a restaurant." Severus tossed an apron at you. "It's time to make yourself useful, Lupin. Unless you truly prefer commercial sauce from a jar?"
You'd never progressed much beyond beans on toast before that summer, but you learned quickly. Even Dora had to admit that Severus made you a better cook than she'd ever be, and Andromeda actually asked for your recipe for pasta puttanesca. She never guessed you'd gotten it from your boyfriend, not a cookbook, or that it was an old family recipe that Dorotea Gianelli had brought to England when she married Brian Prince in 1927.
Fortunately you still remember the recipe. Even better, one of the little alimentari down the block carries all the ingredients and a more than respectable Chianti Classico. Severus would know exactly what red would best bring out the spicy flavor of the sauce, but this will do for now. Later, if you're right, he can buy the wine.
And if you're wrong, at worst you'll have a tasty dinner to share with a new friend, and enough alcohol to drink yourself to sleep.
So you fry the onions and cook the anchovies and the olives, and add the capers and chilis and tomatoes. If you're nervous, it doesn't show in the sauce, which tastes just like what your lover swore was his grandmother's best dish. You turn down the heat and drain the pasta, and before you know it you've prepared a tray with the pasta in a covered bowl, two plates and sets of flatware, and a loaf of crusty bread from Forno Top. The bottle of chianti, charmed not to break, is tucked under your arm, and your heart is pounding so hard that only your curse keeps you from dropping dead of an aneurysm.
The door to his flat is closed. You balance dinner on one hand and knock. "Hello? Buon giorno? I'm your next door neighbor and thought we should get to know each other at last."
There's a faint scrape-step-scrape-step from the other side of the door. You arrange your face into a smile. "I've brought dinner if you're hungry. Pasta puttanesca. It's my specialty, old family recipe you know."
The door opens with a jerk. You stare at the lean, long man with the black-lensed glasses and the ridiculous nose and the scarred neck.
He's alive. Alive. And scowling at you in the way that you learned means he's shocked.
"It's not your family recipe," he rasps in a voice that sounds as if every word is agony. "It's mine."
You nod and hold out the tray. "I know, Severus."
He inclines his head and steps to the side. His left leg is oddly stiff. "Inside. Now, before the food goes cold."
You do as you're told. There's no sense in wasting a good dinner, even if Severus looks fair to hex you the instant you take the last bite.
He's alive. But how?
*********
It could almost be a normal meal, except that you're both supposed to be dead. Severus has you uncork the wine and dish out the pasta as he uses spells to set the table and cut the bread. He asks about Hogwarts, and Harry, and seems almost amused by the boy's guilt over "Headmaster Snape" not getting a portrait or a decent funeral. He even asks about your son, and looks properly sympathetic as you tell him how Teddy is the one person you miss, and how you're afraid that Andromeda will fight you for custody when you return to Britain even though he's the only child you'll ever have.
He's so pale he looks jaundiced, and he never takes off the dark glasses. His hands shake, he's far too thin, and there's gray streaking his hair at the left temple. His voice -
But his appetite is good, and between two of you the pasta and bread disappear. He asks for news of England, and you do most of the talking. There's plenty to tell, what with the building campaign for the school, Kingsley forcing new legislation through the Wizengamot, Harry making appeals for the orphans, Teddy scaring his gran half to death when he changed his gender right in the middle of a nappy change -
You wash down the last bites with a generous gulp of wine. Severus chews a hunk of bread and cocks his head. "You've talked about everyone but Nymphadora," he whispers. "Why isn't she here? Or raising her son? Unless she was injured, her mother shouldn't be involved."
"Dora is dead, Severus." You wipe your lips and set your flatware down on the plate, just so. "She threw herself in front of Dolohov's spell just as Bellatrix spotted her. I caught enough of the backwash that I was dead until the full moon. Hermione Granger wouldn't let them bury me until then, even though Andromeda wanted a double funeral." You sigh. "Of course Hermione had researched my condition better than Poppy or Minerva. Moony woke up in the morgue and scared the piss out of the coroner."
Severus raises the corner of his mouth in a smile. Does it hurt for him to laugh? "Did you bite him?"
You shake your head. "No. Moony - we were too weak to do more than snarl. After moonset I was in a coma for another two days, and then I woke up. By then Andromeda had taken custody of Teddy and buried Dora next to Ted. Minerva sent me here to recover."
He nods. You turn to the sideboard and appropriate a plate of biscotti for dessert. "Your turn."
He finally pushes those dreadful glasses up on his forehead and rubs at his eyes. They're horribly bloodshot, possibly from Nagini's venom, possibly from exhaustion. You can't tell, but it's no wonder he doesn't like the light. "I had a portkey to San Damiano del Firenze. My mother's cousin is a Healer there. She saved me, barely."
"And that's all?"
"That's all." His fingers shake slightly as he touches the purple marks on his throat. "She said I'll regain my mobility given time and proper physiotherapy, but my voice - " He coughs and takes a delicate sip of his wine.
"I'm sorry." You've been hoarse for most of your life, thanks to Moony's desperate screams. But Severus - his voice was like velvet. Now it sounds as if buying bread hurts. He'll never teach or lecture again, even with sonorus to amplify the scratchy whisper.
"Are you?" Someone yells down in the street, and someone else uses language that would make a sailor blush. Severus flicks his eyes toward the window, then back to you. "You believed what the Order said. What Greyback said. Forgive my skepticism about your good wishes."
"I believed what you wanted me to believe, Severus." You can't, won't let yourself look away. "Albus didn't see fit to inform us of your part in his death. Need to know, and all that."
His cheeks flush. "You were my lover. You didn't so much as owl."
"I couldn't. So much happened - "
"Like you yielding to Molly Weasley's plans for a safe, happy, heterosexual life." You cringe at the bitterness in the rough voice. "You married a month after Albus died, and Nymphadora was pregnant when? No wonder you didn't - "
"I was too busy trying to keep Harry alive!" It isn't until the echo dies that you realize that you shouted. He swallows as if it hurts and leans back a bit in his chair. You clench and relax your fists under the table until you're back in control.
"Yes, I was wrong. I never should have married her, or stayed with her. I should have cast prophylactus on myself if I didn't want a child. I should have tried to find you.
"I'm sorry, Severus. I'm sorry. Unless you have a Time Turner, though, there's nothing I can do to take back the last year. She was there, and she loved me,. We thought it would be enough." You press your teeth into your lower lip. He's staring at you with a look that tears a fresh wound in your heart. "It wasn't, and she wasn't. I think even Molly knew that by the end."
"Do you miss her?" His whisper is so low only a werewolf could hear it.
You reach across the dishes to take his hands in your own. They're smooth, and cool, and quiver slightly even at rest. "I miss her courage and her humor, and the way she loved Teddy." You breathe deep to steady yourself.
"I don't miss her as a wife. And Moony never claimed her as his mate."
"Even though she had his cub?"
Your eyes squeeze shut at that. "She had my baby. There's a difference, you know. I never trusted Moony with her or Teddy. He wanted someone else."
The thin, frail hands clutch at yours. You open your eyes.
"I missed you," you whisper. "Severus - "
"Prove it," he says. He pushes back from the table and stands. All his weight is on his good leg.
You join him, take his face in your two hands. The blood-filled eyes are too bright in the gathering dusk.