Secret Snarry Swap: FIC: Ice in Lunenburg Title: Ice in Lunenburg Author:me_midget Other pairings/threesome: none Rating: PG-13 Word count: 5,000 Content/Warning(s): (highlight for spoilers) *hurt/comfort* Prompt: Harry runs away to Canada of all places to take a piddly little job in a small fishing village. He never expected to find anyone he knew out there, least of all a former professor who was supposed to be dead. Summary: Harry has been living as a Muggle in Lunenburg, Canada for three years now. Even though he's not able to use any magic, he's content. But when Snape appears back in his life, Harry realizes that something big has been missing for him to live happily ever after. A/N: First of all: To my giftee chibitoaster, the mod(s) and all of you: Happy Holidays! <3 Second of all: Thank you, thank you, thank you torino10154 and Badgerlady for being awesome & for helping me out!
Ice in Lunenburg
It was Harry's third year in Lunenburg, but the winters didn't become any easier with time. Fishing became too dangerous when the sea got cold and rough, but he still went out with the crew if the weather was somewhat okay. After all, his second job as a hand in a warehouse just didn't pay that much and Harry needed that money, as he was saving up for a nice Christmas dinner. Nevertheless, Harry found himself content being there, surrounded by winds that tore at his face and the few people who actually lived in the village and didn't flee to warmer regions as soon as the temperatures dropped.
Harry pushed through the door of his favourite bar, The Flying Cod – a small, darkish place with a grumpy bartender that served the best putine and fresh, cold beer – and quickly shed hat, scarf and gloves. He waved at Tom and Maurice, two locals who could always be found in The Flying Cod playing cribbage, and went to sit by the bar.
"The usual?" Clyde, the bartender, asked him without looking up.
"Yes, please." Harry reached for a newspaper lying on the bar and leafed through it. He liked that the headlines here read 'Christmas lights strung up at Main Street' and 'The investigative report: Winter cycling with Jerome Rillette'. If people died here, it was because of old age or because they fell asleep in the snow while drunk. And the most shocking crimes in Harry's three years here had been when a group of bored teenagers had sneakily stolen several snow bikes.
"How's fishing going?" Clyde asked as he put the beer in front of Harry.
Harry shrugged. "Water's not frozen yet, so we're still going out whenever possible. Which isn't often." Clyde grunted and nodded and went to check on Harry's fries. Harry heard the door open again, but didn't bother turning around. There were no surprises in this place. It was almost seven in the evening – time for Evelin to make her appearance and check up on Clyde, her husband of almost forty years now. Instead, though, the bar stool next to Harry creaked as someone sat down on it. Harry turned his head in surprise – and promptly fell off his own stool.
"Fuck." Fuck, fuck, fuck!
"Good evening to you, too, Potter." Severus Snape sneered at him, lying there on the floor, and pulled off his gloves.
Harry stared dumbly at Snape for a couple of seconds before he finally pushed himself to his feet and returned to his seat. "How'd you find me?"
Snape snorted. "You didn't even put up a proper Fidelius charm. How could I not find you?"
Harry stared at his drink and took a big gulp. "Yeah, I didn't." He looked around, hoping for Clyde to appear. He didn't know what to do with Snape. Truth be told, Harry hadn't counted on anyone from the Wizarding world coming here. He was in contact with Ron and Hermione, writing them occasionally, and that was it. That had been enough. Granted, when he'd arrived here first, they had pestered him with owls, but by now they had accepted that he needed to be alone. And that living as a Muggle would be so much harder if overly tired owls kept landing at his house. "What do you want?"
"Do you really want to discuss this here?" Snape asked. Harry noted the looks the locals gave him – they couldn't really hear what they were saying, but Harry talking to a stranger was probably weird enough. Fuck.
"No." He saw Clyde pushing through the door with his putine. "I live on Green Street. Number 89. Be there in an hour."
******
Harry had hoped giving himself an hour to think would help him sort through his feelings and fears, but they still thrummed inside his chest when Snape knocked at his door. Harry hurried him inside, feeling a bit like Aunt Petunia in his desire not to let the neighbours see and to keep his private mess private.
He led Snape into the living room – a tiny, cosy thing filled with books and a big TV. Winters were long here in Nova Scotia. Pouring himself a glass of whisky, he looked at Snape, waiting for him to say what was going on. Snape gave the glass and Harry a raised-eyebrow look, but Harry didn't move a muscle. Pouring Snape a glass, he felt, was like inviting him to stay.
"You have ketchup in your beard," Snape said, pointing at Harry's right cheek.
"Fantastic. Now what do you want?" He quickly rubbed the back of his hand over his cheek.
"I thought it was obvious. I came to reclaim my memories." Harry gulped at that, but Snape looked like he wanted to talk, so Harry let him. "As you remember, I gave you my memories when I thought I was about to die. When it was the only logical conclusion. Then, when I went looking for them in Dumbledore's Pensieve, they were gone and, since no one has touched the Pensieve apart from you, I deducted that you must have my memories. But by the time I came to the conclusion, you were gone from England." The accusation in Snape's voice was palpable.
"Not before I testified for you."
"That you did. You testified and you vanished before they had even released me, before I had the chance to go looking for my memories."
Snape must have been looking for those since he got out of Azkaban – that was almost as long as Harry had been in Canada, Harry realised. And if Snape had been looking for him since then… well, it proved, at least, that Harry wasn't as easily to be found as Snape had implied.
"I want them back." Snape stepped forward but Harry quickly raised a hand to stop him.
"I can't."
Snape's face immediately turned from sallow to red. "What the hell do you mean, you can't? You have those memories!"
"Yes, I do." Harry shifted uncomfortably from one side to the other and took another sip of whisky to buy himself some time. "I just… I can't access them. At least not in a way that allows me to share them with you. Or give them back or whatever." Snape looked like he was about to explode, so Harry sighed and launched into an explanation. "After the war, my magic was on the fritz. I think it must've been that last fight with Voldemort. Something had happened, I don't know what, and suddenly I couldn't even perform the simplest of spells anymore. Hermione did a lot of research that didn't end up resolving the issue and so I went to see a specialist at St. Mungo's. He said that my magic core was overstrained in the effort to win over Voldemort – amplified by me dying and all that. Anyway, he said I should take it easy for two weeks or so and give my magic time to recuperate. Living without magic when you have used it so effortlessly for so long proved difficult. I got impatient."
Snape snorted, but Harry stopped him from saying anything with just a look. He then took a deep breath and continued: "I didn't wait two weeks and tried casting a Levitation spell after one week. Nothing happened. The feather didn't even twitch. So I waited for three more weeks, thinking giving my core a good measure of time to heal would do the trick. But it didn't and I went back to the specialist. He said to give it more time and try again after a while. And so I waited once more. I got the same result still when I tried to cast a spell. And that's when I realised that my magic was gone."
Snape looked at him for a long time. Long enough for Harry to sigh again and sit down on his couch. He felt drained – it had been such a long time since he'd last discussed what had happened.
Finally, Snape cleared his throat. "I have seldom heard that much bullshit at once."
Harry's head snapped up. "What?"
"Oh, stop glaring at me like that, Potter. As if that has any effect at all. You can't just lose your magic because you overstrained your core a bit. Your magic is still there, you're just too afraid to access it."
Harry crossed his arms in front of his chest. "That's cruel, Snape, even for you. If my magic was still there, I'd be able to feel it like I feel yours." And Snape's magic was radiating towards him, warm and wonderful, trying to draw him in. It was only so much Harry could do to stay seated and cling to his drink.
"Your magic is still there. I can feel it, however faint it is. Go on, cast a spell."
Harry shook his head, even though a spark of hope started blooming in his chest. Snape rolled his eyes and quickly stepped forward to press his own wand in Harry's hands. "Try it."
Exhaling shakily, Harry gripped Snape's wand tight in his hand, barely registering the significance of holding another person's wand, and flicked it, saying, "Lumos." Nothing happened, not even the tiniest of sparks. Harry's stomach plummeted and he almost threw the wand back at Snape. "I told you." He downed the rest of his whisky then.
"I'm not leaving until I have my memories back."
"Then I hope you enjoy Lunenburg, since you'll stay here forever."
"Don't be a drama queen, Potter," Snape scoffed and grabbed his wand. "I'm positive there's magic in you and I will find a way to access it, whether you want it or not. Those memories are important to me and I will not have you stand in my way."
"Whatever, Snape," Harry said and sighed. "I'd like to be alone now." Snape didn't leave, though – instead, he ran his wand over Harry and waved it in front of his face for an unnecessarily long time. Harry batted the wand away. "Go away."
Snape sniffed. "I'll see you tomorrow, Potter."
******
The next day the sea was too rough to go out with the fishing boat. Harsh, icy winds tore at Harry's thick winter jacket as he made his way to the warehouse where he was employed during the winter. He couldn't get last night's encounter out of his head. In fact, he had barely been able to sleep. Snape being here was disconcerting enough, but he couldn't say that Snape being so convinced Harry would get his memories back didn't fill him with hope. Not much hope, but some. And yet trying to work magic last night had opened that wound again that Harry had hoped would stay closed forever. Maybe hoping was ridiculous as such. What could Snape do that the healer hadn't? How would Snape fix whatever it was that was wrong?
Harry worked through the motions in the warehouse, carrying, cataloguing, and shifting, all the while pondering about Snape. How could those memories be this important to him? Sure, Harry's mother was in them, but he hadn't thought Snape would go these lengths to get his memories back. But then again, Harry had never lost his memories, not like that. Snape had changed, too, since Harry saw him last. He had filled out a bit, looked less like a mangled skeleton, and his hair was a little less greasy. Overall, he looked healthier. A bit older, too, but Harry could say the same about himself. In his case, the winds and the sea had left their marks on his face already. He didn't mind, though – he enjoyed the work on the ship.
After work, Harry considered returning to the The Flying Cod, but he didn't want Snape to show up and make everything weird. The people in Lunenburg would probably already have enough to talk about, even with Harry not adding any extra material. And so Harry decided to skip his usual Wednesday route to the Cod and instead go home and cook dinner himself.
******
Harry stared at the meagre stock in his cupboards. He'd found a can of kidney beans, a small bag of noodles and a bar of chocolate. Scratching his head, he wondered how the fuck he was supposed to make dinner with that. None of it even looked appetizing. Before he had time to wonder if combining noodles and beans would taste okay, there was a knock at his door. He found Snape standing outside, true to his word, holding big bags in his hands.
"I brought curry," he said, pushing the bags into Harry's arms and walking past him into the warm house.
Harry looked inside the bags, then back at Snape, and quickly closed the front door as a cold gust of wind caught his trousers. "Where did you get curry from? There's no curry place in this town. I know that. I checked."
Snape shrugged. "I convinced my hosts to let me use the kitchen for a bit and cooked the curry."
"You made this?" Harry asked incredulously.
"Yes. I had a lot of time on my hands."
Harry nodded slowly and carried the bags into his small kitchen. Snape had stored the curry in Tupperware boxes. Harry considered getting plates or bowls, but opted for just a fork and a spoon instead. "And they let you use their kitchen, just like that?" He just couldn't wrap his head around the idea of Snape standing in a kitchen and cooking. He supposed it must be similar to brewing potions, but cooking was so… so nurturing.
"Well, a little spell or two helped convince them, but yes. They let me use their kitchen. I even left some curry for them."
The scent of well-made curry soon wafted through Harry's home. He hadn't expected to be missing the dish this much, but for a moment there he was grateful that Snape was intruding on his life – and that he brought curry.
"Thanks," he mumbled as he stuffed his face with spoonsful of deliciousness. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Snape nod at him.
After they had finished eating, Snape poured them each a glass of whisky without asking for Harry's permission, and sat down across from Harry. "Now, Potter, tell me everything. Details. Tell me how your spells don't work, tell me what you feel when you try a spell. Tell me about the last spell that you cast."
And Harry told him. Told him about his fight with Voldemort, told him about feeling empty. There was no touching his magical core, no feeling of magic inside him. He told him what the Healer had said exactly – the visit to St. Mungo's wasn't something Harry would ever be able to forget. Finally, he told Snape again that there was no hope, none whatsoever.
Snape finished his glass of whisky and said, "We'll see about that."
******
Snape came around every day of the week after that, more often than not bringing food. Sometimes, he would run his wand over Harry, mumbling this or mumbling that, talking, asking questions. Harry let him. Despite everything, Snape was surprisingly good company. And besides, Harry had missed having someone around who knew the past version of Harry – without ever treating him like the public hero that he'd never been.
"Tell me something about your life," Harry asked one night. Snow was falling thickly from the skies. Going out on the sea was an impossibility for now, but thankfully the job in the warehouse was busy enough, what with Christmas coming closer and closer.
"About my life? You know about my life. I read a lot, use my hosts' kitchen and come here to visit you."
Harry shook his head. "That's not what I meant. I want to know about your life back home." He got up and walked over into his small kitchen, where he poured milk into two cups that he placed in the microwave. "What's it like?"
"Boring. The usual," Snape said and Harry knew there was an infinite number of things that Snape wasn't telling him. The microwave beeped and Harry added some cocoa powder to make two quick hot chocolates. When he carried them back into the living room, he just gave Snape a look. "Fine. It's… uneventful. Boring, as I said. I do mail-order business under a pseudonym. I don't want the hassle of people sending me Howlers because they heard my name in some dark story."
"Do you still have problems with that? Do people give you trouble on the street?" Harry vividly remembered people coming up to him to talk, to ask him to help, to just be allowed to near him. It had freaked him out each and every time.
Snape shrugged, though. "There are some bad days, yes. On others, nobody even bothers to look my way."
Harry poured some whisky into their hot chocolates and handed one to Snape, motioning for him to continue.
"Potter, it's not that much different from back when I was a teacher. Only that there aren't as many idiots around me – they send me owls instead."
"So that's it? That's your life? You read and do mail-order business?"
Snape gave him a look over the rim of his cup. "Do you do anything different to what I do, Potter? You work in the warehouse or on the ship, you visit your pub and then you return home."
Harry concentrated hard on drinking, staring into his spiked hot chocolate as if all wisdom could be found inside it. And maybe if he drank enough, he would find some, too. But Snape was right. His life was orderly and structured, but it was also what Harry would call boring – if it was somebody else's life.
That night, Harry lay in bed, wide awake, and stared at the ceiling. He'd never considered this life he was leading boring. It was a good life, a comfortable life. But now that Snape had appeared in Lunenburg, he had started questioning things. Yet… yet he wouldn't want to miss Snape. Talking to the man was kind of fun and it filled him with warmth to know that Snape would be back on the next day. Doing what he was doing. Harry wondered how long this would be going on. When would Snape give up on him? When the frost was the worst and his hair started freezing? Or would he wait until spring to realise that he wouldn't be able to cure Harry? And what then? Would he just up and leave? The thought was awful enough for Harry to cross his arms in front of his chest and stare defiantly at the ceiling. No, Harry couldn't let Snape go like that. But realising that and doing something about it were two different matters altogether.
******
Harry was having odd dreams involving a gazillion ways of him trying to stop Snape from leaving. He tried not to overanalyse any of them, but that was harder than he might have expected. In some, it was Harry binding Snape to a chair, in others, he was using handcuffs to tie him and Snape together. And then there were the ones that both got more of Harry's attention and created some serious knee-shaking in him.
One night, when Snape visited him again, going about his business, Harry burst out: “The city is having a Christmas season opening party.”
Snape looked up at him from where he was running the wand over Harry's foot. “All right.”
“Yes. Bit of fireworks and a party in a bar downtown.”
“I didn't realize Lunenburg had something that could be called 'downtown'.”
“Ah. Well.” Harry licked his lips. He hadn't expected to be this nervous. “Would you like to go?”
“With you?”
“With me, yes.” It was ridiculous, really. The thought of him and Snape going there together, going on something that could be called a date. Was he crazy to even entertain the thought? But he wasn't the same man he'd been back in England. And Snape wasn't who he had used to be, either. No longer a spy, no longer a mean professor keen on putting Harry down. When Harry looked at Snape, he saw a man who was working hard on reactivating Harry's magic. It didn't matter that Snape was doing it to get his memories back.
“Why not, Potter. Why not?”
Harry's heart jumped and he smiled. Snape continued to run his wand across Harry's body and Harry sat there, patiently. But this time, when Snape's wand had reached his head, Harry start up with a jolt and grabbed Snape's hand.
“What is it?”
“I can feel them. I can feel your memories.” Snape looked at him, his mouth hanging slightly open. “I can feel them against my own and they are warm.”
After a few seconds Snape swallowed thickly and nodded. “I told you your magic wasn't gone for good. Without it, you wouldn't be able to feel them.”
Harry beamed at Snape and almost threw his arms around him. Apparently, everything was not lost. “My magic is still there, then? It's not gone?”
“As I said, Potter. It's hidden somewhere inside you and we just need to find a way to access it again.”
And just that easily, the impossible became possible. The 'forever without magic' became a temporary thing. Maybe, if Snape managed to find a way to awaken his magic again, there was a chance… But while everything in Harry screamed for him to hope for salvation, he barely dared to.
******
They were surely looking like two big marshmallows, walking down the street in their full winter attire, Harry thought. Marshmallow-like protection against the cold and the wind that blew snowflakes into their eyes. Harry had been fretting the whole day if it would be okay for him to hold Snape's hand on this outing, debating if this was a date for Snape as well, or if the feeling was one-sided. But at least the former was something he shouldn't even have worried about: they were bundled up to the nines and their gloves prevented any form of real contact. Harry motioned for Snape to follow him to the harbor, where he waved at some of his colleagues and showed Snape from which spot they would have the ideal view.
Clyde was selling hot, mulled wine nearby and Harry got them two cups.
“Thanks.” Snape toasted Harry and took a sip. Despite the cold, it was nice standing there next to each other, not close enough to be touching, but almost.
“Your beard is frozen,” Snape said and Harry laughed.
“Happens more often than I care about,” he said and held the mug of mulled wine closer to his chin to thaw his beard. In the background, the mayor held a speech that Harry didn't pay attention to.
“How long are you planning to stay?” Harry asked and Snape just shrugged. The thought of Snape leaving turned Harry's stomach, but he said nothing. Soon enough, the mayor stopped talking and the fireworks started. These Canadians really did know something about fireworks, Harry found – the dark sky lit up with stars and sprays in green, yellow, violet, red and white. Harry smiled upwards, feeling as if the lights transported him somewhere else, somewhere calm. Suddenly, he felt Snape standing right behind him, his bundled up front touching Harry's back. Leaning back against him felt almost natural.
As the fireworks wound down, Snape squeezed Harry's shoulder. “Potter, my feet are freezing. Either we go and grab a bite somewhere or you're offering me something warmer than whisky at your place.”
Harry shook himself and cleared his throat. “We… We can go to the Cod and get some stew.”
“Do you go any place else than the Cod?” Snape asked, but nodded.
******
After dinner, Snape accompanied Harry back to his home, but stopped at the front door. “No nightcap?” Harry asked, not knowing if he was referring to just a drink or to more than that.
Snape shook his head. “Not today,” he said and rubbed his gloved hands against each other for additional warmth.
“Okay. I'll see you tomorrow, then?” Harry held the front door open, not caring if the cold was streaming in. He inched a little closer to Snape, looking up at the man, wondering if he was just being ridiculous about this. But Snape inched forward too – and Harry launched: he planted a kiss on Snape's lips. Snape gasped, but instead of pushing Harry back as Harry would have expected, he pulled him closer, just for a second, just for a bit.
“Yes.” Snape cleared his throat as he stepped back. “Yes, tomorrow.”
Harry waved awkwardly at Snape's retreating back before vanishing into his small house, where he quickly changed into his pajamas and slipped under the sheets. Despite everything, sleep came quickly and soon enough, Harry was skipping alone in the clouds of his dreams.
It was three in the morning when he suddenly woke up with a jolt and found himself hovering several feet above his bed. Before he'd even said “What the…?” Harry crashed back down onto his mattress. Heart thumping like mad, he stared at the blanket covering him. He'd hovered. That was accidental magic at its best. Harry drew a shaking breath. Accidental magic. That proved that his magic was still there, somewhere, inside him. It wasn't just an echo of his power, wasn't just a little sizzle as Harry had feared, but proper, strong magic. For a second or two, he wondered if he should try to cast a spell. In the end, he didn't. He wanted to talk this through with Snape first, he told himself. And besides, his wand was locked away in a cupboard in the living room. Tomorrow, he told himself.
******
Harry was excited that day and could barely concentrate at work. When Snape finally came round in the evening, Harry didn't know what he was more excited about: seeing Snape or telling him about his magical outburst. In the end, he settled for pressing a kiss to Snape's lips and launching into the tale about what had happened. Snape even gave him a small smile when he was finished.
“I told you it was rubbish to say that your magic was just gone.”
“So you think I can regain my abilities?”
“I think you can get your magic back. I'm not sure how much of your former abilities you will be able to regain. Maybe all. Maybe just some.”
Harry nodded slowly. If he just got some back, that would be okay, too. Having his magic back would be like reconnecting to his former self. While he was happy with his current life, no matter how boring it might seem to an outsider, having his magic back would make him whole again for the first time in a long time. And so he smiled and kissed Snape again, reveling in the feeling of how natural this was.
******
Two weeks passed and, more often than not, Harry woke up through accidental magic. He went through life with a smile on his face and even Clyde, who was seeing way less of Harry now that Snape had arrived, commented that Harry had never seemed happier. But Harry knew that wasn't just because his magic was coming back.
And yet there were clouds on Harry's horizon. The better he got, magically speaking, the worse Snape's mood seemed to become. It took an almost successful spell in Snape's presence, though – a Lumos that flickered more than it shone – for Harry to realize that his becoming better not only meant that Snape would finally be able to access his memories. Harry regaining his magic also meant that Snape's reason to stay was gone and that he would leave Lunenburg and Harry for good. And suddenly Harry wasn't so sure anymore that he wanted to get better.
“Come on, Potter. At least try to improve,” Snape said the next night, when Harry didn't want to cast a spell. Harry wondered what to say to that. He knew he was being selfish. He wanted Snape to stay. At the same time, he had promised he would give Snape's memories back and he had promised himself to try and get his magic back, if that was possible. He owed it to both of them to try.
Harry nodded and gripped his wand tighter: “Lumos!” A bright ball of light suddenly appeared in front of him. Neither he nor Snape cried out in happiness. Instead, they both smiled faintly, maybe even with a little more melancholia than they had both expected to feel several weeks prior.
Harry's turned to Snape, who was sitting next to him in silence. “You'll have dinner with me on Christmas Eve, won't you?”
Snape's present lying under the tree, Harry was both ready and not for the night. He knew full well that it meant the end of something good, but having Snape there would make the night great, no matter what. How strange that thought was.
The doorbell rang and Harry hurried to answer the door. Snape had brought roasted duck with him, just as he promised. Harry had gotten some wine at the supermarket (he didn't tell Snape where he had bought it, though) and he quickly poured two glasses, hoping to dispel the tension in the air. They ate in in the living room at a table that Snape had transformed from a small stool, the only thing breaking their silence being the stereo playing old-fashioned Christmas carols.
Harry barely tasted the duck. He wanted that night to be special, to be memorable. It was their last night, after all. He'd laid out various strategies on how to come on to Snape. Throwing himself at the man had worked before, but maybe something more subtle would work, too. He'd thought about putting on romantic music, and had even considered spilling wine on himself and having to remove his shirt or something similar. In the end, however, he just took Snape's hand and squeezed it, before pulling Snape onto the couch. They kissed for a long time and Harry waited for it to go further, for Snape to make the first move, but nothing happened. Should he, maybe… But putting his hand on the bulge in Snape's trousers seemed strange, somehow.
Harry scooted back, only a bit, and gave Snape a small smile, one that Snape returned. “I… I got you a gift,” he said then. “I know it's customary to wait until Boxing Day, but… Well.” When Snape said nothing, Harry scrambled to his feet and quickly fetched the small package from under the tree. “Here.”
Snape unwrapped the package slowly. Inside, he found a small bottle – nothing elegant, really, just something Harry had found in a home décor shop in the village – containing silvery-fluid memories. Harry had tied a small paper to the bottle, saying, “Yours.”
Snape swallowed thickly. “Thank you.”
Harry nodded slowly in response, waiting for something and not really knowing what it was. He took Snape's hand into his and squeezed, listening to the carols for a bit. He looked around the room, at the Christmas tree, at Snape, and suddenly said, “You could stay,” just as Snape mumbled, “I could stay, if you'd like me to.”
Snape's head jerked up and Harry quickly threw his arms around Snape. “Yes. Yes, I'd like that.”
Snape slowly put his arms around Harry, pulling him closer. “Good.”