Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Come and get him then, icky-wicky little Potter!" Bellatrix cackled, her face twisted with glee. She said his name the way Malfoy used to – Pottah, spitting out the t's like they made her sick. "Or are you scared I'll get him the same way the Dark Lord got your mummy and daddy?"

SHUT UP, he wanted to shout, but he couldn't speak, the words didn't come – why didn't they come? he thought frantically, panic rising in his chest –

"Harry!" Sirius frantically called out to him, his voice breaking like a rusty trap suddenly snapped shut around it.

He tried to run, tried to get to Sirius, the rush of his heartbeat in his ears almost drowning out the fighting, but something was stopping him – an invisible barrier?

"CRUCIO!"

Vicious light shot from Bellatrix's wand, hitting Sirius straight in the stomach.

Sirius's whole body convulsed, shaking.

No, stop, stop! Harry was frantic, but his palms slapped against the barrier that was keeping him in place, keeping him from helping Sirius. He slammed his fists against it, cold as glass –

"Not as powerful as everyone says you are, mm? Let's see what you do when I kill my favourite cousin right in front of your eyes!" Bellatrix's eyes glittered, while her hair looked like someone had electrocuted her.

NO! He couldn't breathe, he was suffocating, the walls were closing in on him –

"That's what happens when you hide inside a prophecy," she sneered at him. Sirius writhed and trashed at her feet.

Harry looked around in horror and realised he was inside a glass orb, trapped in one of the prophecies at the Department of Mysteries.

Sirius, he wheezed. He felt the oxygen being sucked out of his translucent prison, could feel himself go light-headed. No, Sirius –

Bellatrix just smiled. "Too late, Potter." And then her wand vomited cold, bile-green light.

It didn't even make a sound as it hit its target.

Sirius's body arced.

It arced like dancer's, his godfather's mouth a perfect O of stilted surprise when the curse hit him.

The Veil beckoned. Help me. Please, it whispered.

Harry shot up. His forehead was clammy with sweat and he clawed at the blankets, panting as if he'd just duelled for his life. He dug his fingers into his hair, trying to control his breathing.

"A dream," he told himself hoarsely. "Just a dream."

It took a long time for his heartbeat to return to normal.

Slumping back onto his pillow, he stared up at the frayed canopy above his bed, willing himself to fall asleep again.

Outside, the wind howled.

***

Harry sighed, looking at the building in front of him. 'Bamboo Yoga' the sign above the entrance read in moss-green letters. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat. An icy mid-December wind was blowing and it was already getting dark, but he didn't want to go in before Ron and Seamus arrived. Through the window, he could make out the front desk, a seating area with some comfortable armchairs, and a corridor that he assumed led to the changing rooms and studios.

He almost turned on his heels and left, when a familiar voice called out.

"Harry!" Grinning, Ron crossed the street and waved at him, Seamus tagging along. "Alright, mate?" he clapped Harry on the back.

Harry tried not to wince – Ron had bulked up quite a bit in his first year and a half in Auror training, while he himself still felt like the scrawny twelve-year old he'd been on his first day at Hogwarts. He gave the pair a small smile, rubbing his shoulder. "What's up."

"Hiya, Harry. I'm nervous as heck, man," his former classmate smiled, running a hand through his cropped hair. "But Ron says he thinks I'm making headway."

Harry raised an eyebrow at his best friend.

"Well, yeah," Ron smiled encouragingly at Seamus, "I mean, we've been going to the same class for, what, three months now? She knows your name and all, she's seen you here before. I reckon you should try talk to her soon. Right, Harry?"

Harry hummed, not quite sure what to say.

"Anyways, best get in, it's well cold out here. And we want to get a good spot at the front." With that, Ron pushed open the door to the yoga studio and walked up to the front desk to register their names.

Harry stood lamely behind him. It was a relief to be out of the cold. "What's her name then?" he turned to Seamus, who was unzipping his parka.

"Emily," he blushed, "She's brilliant, you'll see." He hesitated for a split second before lowering his voice. "Hey, err, thanks for joining us today, mate. Ron said you'd never done yoga before and, well… I know you don't like to be out in public these days, so… I appreciate you being my wingman." He gave Harry a nervous grin.

Harry looked down at his shoes. "Yeah. That's alright. No problem."

He was relieved when Ron cut their conversation short and led them to the men's changing rooms.

Setting down his backpack on a low bench, he hung up his coat and took off his sweater, not even bothering to try and flatten his hair when it stuck up in all directions.

"Erm," Ron smirked at him, "you might want to change into something lighter, mate, or you'll bloody die in there."

Harry glanced at Seamus, who was wearing a pair of baggy track shorts and a tight-fitting singlet, before looking back down at his own clothes. He was wearing a loose Led Zeppelin t-shirt Sirius had once given him, and a simple pair of grey joggers. He frowned. "I didn't really bring anything else."

"Hang on." Ron dug through his sports hold-all, fishing up a pair of lurid, bright purple shorts. "Here."

Harry eyed them warily.

Ron rolled his eyes. "They're clean. 'Mione's always telling me not to be a disgusting slob."

"I think I'm good," Harry shook his head. He already felt uncomfortable – the lights in the changing room were too bright, the murmurs and laughter down the corridor too loud.

"Suit yourself," Ron shrugged before zipping up his bag and clapping Seamus on the back. "Right, mate, time to show her your best moves!" He jerked his head to a door leading to what Harry assumed was the studio itself. "C'mon Harry, we'll show you the ropes."

Harry immediately regretted his decision when they entered the room. There were almost twenty other people already, standing and sitting on yoga mats covered with towels. Many of the women were wearing hotpants and sports bras, while most of the men were shirtless. It was swelteringly humid, and a kind of chanting track was playing in the background. Perspiration settled on his back. He took a deep breath.

Ron dragged him to some of the last empty mats. "Seamus'll have a good view here," he winked.

Harry just nodded.

"Namasté, everybody," a young woman walked in. "Lovely to see you all here tonight."

Harry looked up at the girl – Emily, he guessed – as he heard Seamus's intake of breath. Harry didn't immediately understand what the fuss was about, but there was a spring in her step and she had an easy smile, he supposed.

He glanced at Seamus, who just stared at their teacher in worship.

The woman pulled her hair back in a ponytail. Her fingernails were painted a bright orange. She reminded him of some of the witches he'd slept with right after the war. Pretty. Bubbly. But as he looked at her body when she moved around the room, he didn't feel anything. He looked away, staring at the water bottle at Ron's feet.

"Let's get started then," Seamus's crush called out.

***

An hour later, Harry understood exactly why Ron (who'd taken off his shirt less than five minutes into the class) had suggested he wear shorts instead. He was drenched in sweat, his hair clung to the back of his neck like a dog had slobbered all over him, and his joggers were a sodden weight dragging him down.

He felt annoyed, exhausted, disgusting and wanted nothing more than to go home and forget hot yoga existed.

"Whaddaya think? Brilliant, innit?" Ron grinned at him, drying himself off with his discarded shirt. "Such a bloody good workout at the end of a long day, I wish the Ministry would make it part of our training. You should join us again, it'll be a great way to build up some muscle before you join the programme next year."

Harry nodded through clenched teeth.

"You guys er, I think…" Seamus shifted from one leg to another, glancing at their teacher who was blowing out the candles that were dotted throughout the room. "I think I'm going to try and talk to her. Maybe I can help her clear away the mats," he breathed.

Ron winked. "Go for it, Finnegan. You've got this."

Harry saw his opportunity. "Yeah," he added quickly. "Good luck! I wish I could stay but I've got to go, sorry, I've got this other thing planned. See ya!"

Before either of the others could say anything, he fled the room with an apologetic half-smile, grabbed his coat and all but dashed out onto the street, not even bothering to tie his shoes.

Cold winter air immediately struck him in the face, but the brutal contrast with the humid heat of the studio only felt like relief. He looked around wildly and spotted a dark alley. A few quick steps, a swift Silencing charm – and he Disapparated without so much as a sound, arriving on his doorstep.

Mrs Black started screaming at him the minute he stepped inside. He whirled around, something inside of him snapping. "SHUT UP!" he all but ripped the curtain over the painting, but it only muffled her litany of curses and complaints.

Hands over his ears, Harry fled to the living room instead, slamming the door behind him. He stripped off his sweat-soaked joggers and t-shirt and let them fall to the floor without bothering to hang them up to dry, until he was in nothing but a sweaty, smelly pair of boxers.

He looked around the dark room.

The place was depressing. The wallpaper peeled from the wall like ghostly fingers with long nails. It still smelled as musty as it did the first time he ever set foot in Grimmauld Place, the heaviness of Dark magic in the air suffocating.

His shoulders sagged. Welcome home, he thought bitterly.

Too weary to cast a Lumos or light the fire, he dropped onto the sofa and let his head fall back.

Mrs Black's screams echoed from the hallway, and something creaked in the attic.

The room was filled with the dark shapes of the furniture.

Minutes passed.

He lifted an arm, smelling himself and making a face at the stench. He should probably go shower. But he was so tired. He hadn't slept much at all the night before. His nightmare came back to him, the sound of Bellatrix's taunts ringing in his ears.

He rubbed his eyes, willing his brain to forget.

Fumbling for the remote, he turned on the telly. Before he settled in for the night, he looked over the arm of the sofa and located a half-finished can of beer. It was lukewarm, but he immediately took a sip.

The flickering images on the screen soon flashed across his face, tolerable parodies of Patronuses he no longer knew how to conjure up himself.

***

"Harry? Are you there?"

Harry set his spoon down and groaned. It was much too early for visitors, but he could clearly hear the whooshing sound of the Floo up in the living room.

A few seconds later, a bushy head of curls appeared at the top of the stairs leading down into the kitchen.

"Ah, there you are. Morning!" Hermione gave him an encouraging smile and promptly sat down next to him at the kitchen table, draping her woollen winter robes over the back of a chair and laying her gloves on the table.

He yawned and scratched the stubble on his chin. "'lo, 'Mione."

Hermione raised a sceptical eyebrow. "May I ask why you're eating your cornflakes without milk?"

He looked down at the bowl of cereal in front of him and shrugged. "Out of milk. I'll go get some groceries later…"

His friend looked around the kitchen. She pursed her mouth as she took in the stacks of dirty dishes on the counter, several old editions of the Prophet spread over the table and a few fruit flies buzzing over some Chinese takeaway he'd ordered two days earlier. Or maybe three, it was hard to keep track of time.

"Don't," Harry sighed.

"I didn't say anything."

"Yes, you did."

"I just think that – "

"Hermione," he warned. "I know what you're going to say. You're going to tell me I need to take better care of myself and the house, and get out more and find a 'suitable way to spend the days'. Does that sound about right?"

Hermione looked unimpressed. "Knowing something and actually doing it are two very different things, Harry. You look like you slept on the sofa again. Am I wrong?"

"We can't all have house elves doing our bidding, you know!" he snapped with a little more bite than he'd intended.

"No, we can't, but house elves are not the problem here. I still think it's a good thing you sent Kreacher to live at Hogwarts, but we worry about you and –

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, getting up to put on the kettle and avoid her reproachful gaze. "Anyways, how are things at Hogwarts?"

"Oh, wonderful, actually!"

He leaned back against the counter, watching her talk animatedly.

He remembered when she'd been offered the job of Assistant Professor of Transfiguration. It had been mere weeks after the Final Battle, when Hogwarts was still being rebuilt. She'd told him about Professor McGonagall's offer at one of the raucous post-war parties at the Leaky Cauldron. He'd been in a booth with a bunch of people he hardly knew, drunk on Firewhiskey, and Parvati had been in his lap. At first, he hadn't been able to make out what Hermione was saying because Parvati kept nibbling at his ear.

"Professor McGonagall has asked me to be her Assistant! To teach, Harry! At Hogwarts!"

Her face had radiated happiness, her eyes glittering at the prospect.

"That's brill', Mi-nee, c'ngrats," he'd slurred approvingly.

"She offered me rooms at the castle, but obviously I said that might be hard, what with Ron starting his training here in London and me wanting to be a bit closer to my parents, but it was all fine, she said – I'll keep living with Ron and Floo over on days when I have classes, which is actually really soon, it's almost the first of September already! So, you know, I'll have to start working on my syllabus straight away – Professor McGonagall said she'd let me borrow some of her notes but – oh and I forgot to mention, she told me to call her Minerva!"

Harry had just nodded and tried to focus on what she was saying, but Parvati had started grinding in his lap and it was hard to focus.

He snapped out of his reverie when the kettle whistled behind him.

"… so with all the marking I'll soon have to do for the end-of-term exams, I'll be pretty busy, but I'm so proud of my students. They're really excelling!"

He gave her the smile he knew was expected of him and poured her some tea.

"That's great," he said, hoping she didn't hear his lack of enthusiasm.

He didn't want his friends to know how hollow he felt as he'd watched them move on with their lives. Ron and Seamus in Auror training, Hermione taking on what sounded like every single one of Hogwarts' Transfiguration classes, Neville taking an apprenticeship in Herbology at Leeds' Weedling Institute of Horticulture, Ginny finishing her final year at school and then spending a gap year with Luna, as Luna travelled through southeast Asia to document some obscure magizoological species on the brink of extinction.

Heck, even Malfoy seemed to have managed to move on. Last thing Harry had heard, the prat had somehow gotten a position at the wizarding branch of Sotheby's. Probably valuating hexed artefacts, he thought darkly.

"It is great," Hermione nodded happily. "Speaking of which," she continued and rounded on him.

He eyed her wearily.

"Ron told me you joined him and Seamus for hot yoga?"

"Mm," he tried to give her as little as possible.

"He said he thought you had a really good time! Oh Harry, I'm so glad. You know how I've been telling you to get out more often and explore different activities? This is exactly what I was talking about! I think it's great – yoga can be so beneficial, you know!"

"And…?" He grimaced. They had been friends long enough for him to know there was more.

"Well," she grabbed her bag and fumbled through it, then passed him a small card.

His mouth fell open as he looked at it, and he groaned. "Hermione, no…"

"Oh, come on, Harry, it's just eight sessions! I thought I'd help you out a bit. You know, give you a little nudge in the right direction. Studies have actually shown that gym passes really help people commit to working out, so I'm sure the same applies to yoga as well!" She gave him an encouraging smile.

"I have the money to pay for yoga myself, you know…" he tried.

"I know. But I wanted to do this. Because I'm so happy you were brave enough to join Ron and Seamus. I… I know you haven't had an easy time."

He wasn't going to get out of it. He gave her the brightest smile he could muster and tried to ignore the lead weight in his stomach.

"Yeah. Thanks, Hermione. You're a good friend."

***

"We have several classes this evening, are you interested in one in particular?"

Harry was standing at the front desk of Bamboo Yoga, fidgeting with his gloves. Temperatures had dropped over the weekend and it was freezing outside. It took all he had not to turn around and Apparate right back home.

"Err, I'm not sure. I'm only a beginner."

The young man behind the desk shook his head, his silver earring catching the light. "Oh, don't worry, we've got something for every level." As the man grabbed a folder, Harry noticed the way the muscles of his forearms flexed.

"There's Hatha Basic, which is a really good foundational practice. It's a bit slower but the focus is on technique, really. Sandra will teach you a series of poses that help you build your core strength and get in touch with your body." He circled several of the classes on the schedule in the folder.

"Then we've got Vinyasa Flow," he pointed out another class, "which is more of a synchronisation of different movements – you'll want to focus on your breathing and use it to gently guide you through the sequences. Follow the meridians, is what I tend to say."

Harry nodded dumbly as the blond smiled at him encouragingly.

"Ooh and then of course there's Hot Yoga in an hour, that's one of our most popular – "

"No!" Harry panicked "Err, I mean, I tried that before and it wasn't… it was…" He remembered how the stifling humidity had made him feel trapped, like he was back in the glass orb at the Department of Mysteries. "I'd just like something a bit less intense, maybe, ..." he trailed off.

The guy gave him an understanding wink. "Gotcha. You know, I think Simon's class is what you're looking for. He teaches Yin, which is soothingly slow-paced and focuses on relaxation and acceptance. Just a few asanas, all held for long periods of time. You'll be sitting or lying down most of the time, using a bolster or a blanket for support. It's very low-threshold. A lot of people find it helps them clear their mind."

Harry nodded. "Okay, yeah. Maybe I can do that. Is there a Yin class tonight?"

"In ten minutes, actually! Simon always teaches Yin on Tuesdays at six. Second studio on the left," he pointed and added one stamp to Harry's eight-session pass.

Changing into a pair of yoga pants Hermione had sent over by owl, he tried to convince himself that lying on a mat for eight evenings, wrapped in a blanket and hugging a pillow, wouldn't be an insurmountable challenge. He could do this. He could.

The Yin studio had a more relaxing atmosphere than the Hot Yoga one had had, at least. The lights were partially dimmed, there were only a handful of people, and the whole room smelled pleasantly of eucalyptus and sage.

He copied what the other people were doing and grabbed himself some props before sitting down awkwardly on one of the mats.

Just then, the door at the back of the room opened and shut again.

"Namasté. Welcome to tonight's Yin class."

Harry froze.

He would recognise the careful articulation of that baritone voice anywhere.

Chapter Text

Severus was surprised the second time Potter showed up.

Not surprised enough to arrive early and give Potter a chance to talk to him, but still. He hadn't expected the brat to return after discovering his hated ex-Potions Professor taught this yoga class.

There weren't many clients that day.

No doubt the weather played a part in that: it had been snowing almost non-stop since the night before, and Sandra had mentioned there were disruptions on both the Northern line and the Victoria line. Severus simply Apparated to the studio, so it didn't affect him. But attendance was always lower when the weather was too warm for people to want to spend time indoors, or too cold for them to drag their arses off the sofa.

He'd long since resigned himself to the fact that, no matter whether they were magical or Muggle, people were plain lazy. Years of teaching Potions had provided him with first-hand proof of that.

Not looking at Potter, he nodded at the class, sat down on his mat, and took a deep breath.

"We will start by sitting down in the centre of the mat. You can take a blanket to get more comfortable, sitting either cross-legged or with your feet tucked underneath you."

He watched people shift until everyone was more or less still.

"Then just close your eyes, and allow yourself to settle into the space."

Normally, he would have shut his eyes just like everyone else. But tonight, he couldn't stop himself from observing Potter.

The boy was sitting stiffly upright, eyes squeezed shut. He was sitting all the way at the back, in the corner. It was the spot he himself would have chosen; Severus had never once left his back unguarded since joining the ranks of the Dark Lord. But he knew he was overly paranoid. The boy sitting on that particular mat was just a coincidence; Potter wouldn't be stupid enough to think anyone would attack him at a yoga studio in Brixton.

Severus finally closed his eyes.

"As you begin your practice, just observe your breath. Observe the way it enters and leaves the nose. Drop the shoulders, drop the tension in your jaw. Allow the belly to be soft, just let it relax as your breath moves freely."

The room was silent, the only sound the soft ticking of the ventilation pipes.

"Now, we will do a few rounds of breathing together, four counts each for our inhale and our exhale. Smooth out each breath; in… 3, 2, 1 and out… 3, 2, 1. Keep doing this now at your own pace."

He opened his eyes again. His gaze slid back to Potter.

Severus still wasn't used to the way the boy looked these days.

Of course, he'd seen pictures of him in the Prophet in the year and a half since the war – he'd have to have been blind or live in the middle of nowhere to miss the way the Chosen One was splashed across the paper's pages. But it was only when he'd seen Potter in the flesh the week before that he'd realised the pictures hadn't been updated in a long time.

The brat was just as skinny and runty as always. But he had longer hair than in the pictures now, and he looked much less healthy. There were bags under his eyes and something furtive about him – like something was off, but he didn't want anyone to know.

"Now gently come into cat-cow position." Severus came up onto all fours.

"Keep your knees wide at hip-breadth, and support your shoulders with both palms pressing into the mat. As you inhale, move the chest forward and arch your back. When you exhale, curve your back and let the head drop to the mat."

His eyes roamed the classroom, watching the slow rolling of backs. In a low, quiet voice, he kept giving instructions.

"Then start making slow circles with your hips to loosen the joints. Let the whole spine follow your movement. Keep observing your breath – the exhalation makes your body heavy; the hips… the spine… the tailbone."

As he demonstrated the movement, he spent a moment revelling in the way his body was able to stretch so freely. When he'd first tried his hand at yoga, the very same movement had felt like Thestrals were tearing chunks off his shoulder.

"We will take three more breaths here."

He allowed himself to inhale and exhale without caring what anyone would think, without feeling self-conscious. It had taken him a long time to get there.

"Now come back to centre, remaining on all fours. Then lift your right hand, reaching up towards the sky in a gentle twist for your upper body."

Hands rose throughout the room. He did not look at Potter's.

"Then, as you inhale, lower your arm and scoop it under your body, as it were, until your entire upper body is resting on your right shoulder."

Some people winced, shifting to try and get comfortable.

"You can take a blanket to support your head if you'd like, and use your left hand to steady yourself on the mat."

Bodies settled into the class's first pose, arses raised and shoulders to the mat.

"That's right. Now really let yourself release onto the floor, sink into that shoulder. We will be staying in this asana for a while."

He stood up and observed the room.

Potter didn't look even remotely comfortable.

Last week, Severus had gained an unprofessionally perverse pleasure from seeing his former student struggle. It had been ridiculously apparent that the brat had no idea what he was doing. The first half of the class, Potter had surreptitiously been staring at Severus with skittish eyes, paying as little attention to his instructions as he had done during his Potions lessons at Hogwarts.

When Severus had deliberately caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow at him, the boy had reddened and immediately looked down.

Since then, he'd kept his eyes trained on his mat.

Severus frowned. What did the boy want, coming back to take a yoga class with him, of all people?

After his trial, Potter had sent him a few owls. He hadn't opened any of the letters, assuming the brat was simply wheedling for a show of gratitude after he'd pleaded with the Wizengamot to free Severus of all charges. When they did, Severus had made a decision: he was never again going to be beholden to any man. Least of all Potter.

Which is why, after the initial shock at seeing the wizarding world's boy hero suddenly appear in his class the week before, he'd felt a wave of annoyance.

He took a deep breath, noticing the feelings coursing through him. There was a twitch in his neck, right above his scar. He exhaled slowly, relaxing his shoulders. Letting go. He was letting go.

Sinking back down on his mat, he demonstrated the next step.

"Slowly come back up onto all fours and raise your arm up to the sky again. Stretch to let your body relax in this counterpose."

During the next hour, he walked around, correcting someone's posture from time to time and reminding people to focus on their breathing.

When he neared Potter, he noticed the boy's whole body tense.

He stood right next to the boy's mat for a while. Looking at his slender build, his hips as he leaned onto a bolster, neck long and face towards the floor.

He could place his hands on Potter's tailbone, fingertips on his lower back. Apply the slightest pressure to intensify the stretch. But he knew the boy would spring. He would spring like a coil if Severus would lay so much as a finger on him.

Severus turned around and didn't look at the boy again for the rest of the class.

"Coming to the end of our practice now, we will settle into shavasana, the resting pose."

People immediately relaxed, grabbing blankets to prop underneath their head or cover their legs as they lay down.

"Let your hands rest on either side of the body, gently close your eyes and just - let go. Let everything go. Simply be with the breath."

He knew most of the people enjoyed the end of the class the most.

For him, however, shavasana had been the pose he'd struggled the most with when he'd first started practising. Everything he'd Occluded for so long – the rage and the regret and the self-hatred, the bone-crushing tiredness – had washed over him, crushing him like a fist squeezing his lungs. He had barely been able to breathe during his first shavasana.

It had taken weeks at Anzan-ji before he had finally learnt to do what he now told his students to do.

Letting go had never come naturally for him.

He watched the still shapes on the mats throughout the darkened room.

There was the frayed father of three who somehow found the time to take one evening off a week to attend Severus's class, clutching at yoga like a liferaft.

The two twenty-something friends who studied at the University of London, one of whom was incredibly flexible.

The woman who never said a word but always gave him a smile before she left. He'd seen her cry once, quietly, when he'd said there was no right or wrong in Yin, no to-do list to hold onto.

The room was silent.

After a long while, he scraped his throat. "Now slowly start to return your awareness. Move your fingertips, your feet. Maybe allow yourself a stretch. Then roll over onto your side into fetus position, just for a few seconds."

There was shuffling, a few people rubbed their eyes. He envied the way some were able to fall asleep during yoga. Even at night, he tended to lie awake for hours.

"Then as you come up to a comfortable seated position, find a tall spine. Make your breath soft and quiet for a final round of inhale and exhale."

He watched his class, then nodded once.

"Thank you for tonight."

As he undimmed the lamps and flooded the room with light, everyone opened their eyes and got up to go.

"Just a reminder that the studio will be taking a short break over Christmas, we'll reopen again the first week of January. I will see you again then."

He rolled up his mat and left the room almost immediately.

In the teacher's lounge, he had a brief chat with Sandra, who was teaching the final class that evening, before wishing her a merry Christmas and Apparating home.

A thick blanket of snow covered the streets of Croydon.

Stomping the ice off his boots, he pushed his shoulder against the front door of his basement flat, wiggling the key in the lock. The landlord had been promising for months now to get it looked at.

Finally inside, he hung up his coat and headed for the kitchen. The room was cramped and worn-down, with some mould in the corner above the door, but the one-bedroom place was all he could afford on his yoga instructor's salary.

But he didn't care.

One of the first things he'd managed to let go of, was the fact that he would never find another job in the wizarding world. It didn't matter that the Wizengamot had declared him innocent. In the eyes of ordinary witches and wizards, he would always remain Albus Dumbledore's killer.

That had become very clear to him the few times he'd been foolish enough to venture out into Diagon Alley without a disguise after his release from St Mungo's, heading to Slugger and Jigs for some ingredients for his experiments.

The politer shoppers had simply stared and pointed and whispered.

Some had openly stared in horror at his disfigured throat, all but gagging at the sight.

Others had called him names. Murderer. Death Eater scum. Traitor.

"You should have been given the Kiss!" one woman had shouted.

After that, it had been easier than he'd expected to disappear into Muggle London, try to make a living there. Growing up the son of Tobias Snape had done him some good after all, it seemed.

He made himself a cup of tea, sliced some bread off the loaf on the counter and opened a tin of sardines. He sat down by the table, took a sip of tea. It was scalding hot and dark, the way he preferred it, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

It had always been so easy to read Potter – the fool wore every single one of his emotions on his sleeve. But now it was like something was clouding him. Like the fire he'd always had inside had been dimmed.

It annoyed Severus to no end. He'd given up bloody years of his life to keeping the boy safe, keeping him alive – and this was how the wretch decided to live his days now?

He sighed. Why did the brat still get under his skin?

He rested his elbows on the table and pressed his fingertips against his eyelids. He shouldn't care. He didn't care, really. He would just let it go.

Reaching over to his stash of potions, he carefully took a sip of each of them, feeling their magic course through his body. Although they still helped, he'd developed a resistance to them. But they were the strongest nerve-healing and pain-numbing agents he'd been able to create – infinitely better than the rubbish St Mungo's had given him. So this was as good as it was going to get.

After quickly washing up the dishes in the sink, he looked out the basement window. Every now and then, a pair of feet hurried past.

It had stopped snowing, but ice skated on the glass, an intricate maze of crystals. In the greenish glow of the streetlights, they sparkled and glittered. He traced them with his finger for a while, losing himself in their geometry.

There had often been ice on the windows at Anzan-ji too.

Shaking his head, he brushed his teeth by the kitchen sink, quickly rinsed his mouth and headed into the bedroom.

He sat down cross-legged, facing the wall next to his bed, and exhaled slowly.

Do not do zazen; be zazen, he heard Ryotan say.

And just like every night, he let his mind enter the space between thoughts – the emptiness, where there was no Potter, no past, no pain.

Chapter Text

"Harry dear! Merry Christmas, love - come in, come in, everyone's almost here already."

The minute he walked into the Burrow's kitchen, the smell of thyme & oregano-seasoned roast turkey assaulted his nose and Molly swooped down on him. She enveloped him in a crushing hug, pinning his arms to his side and pressing him against her bosom.

"Harry, mate! Long time no see!" Bill ambled into the kitchen. He batted at his mother to release him and enthusiastically shoved a mug of steaming mulled wine into his hand.

"Hiya Bill," Harry caught his breath, holding the mug in front of him like a shield to ward off more hugs. "How are you and Fleur?"

"All good, thanks for asking. Come on in, she'll be thrilled to see you."

The next half hour was torture.

Everyone in the living room kept talking over each other. Ron tried to engage him in a discussion on the Cannons' new Beater ("He was with Tutshill before and they came sixth in the League last year, so I think we've got a fair shot this season"), Hermione and Percy were embroiled in a heated argument about the Ministry's latest draft bill on taxing the import of cauldrons from outside the Commonwealth, while Fleur was painting Angelina's fingernails with a charmed nail polish that sang off-key carols.

George was crouched by the Christmas tree, surreptitiously holding up presents to his remaining ear and rattling them to try and detect what was inside.

The only one who hadn't greeted him was Ginny, who cast him a cold look from across the room from time to time.

"Is Charlie not coming tonight?" Harry turned to ask Mr Weasley, who was fiddling with the buttons of what looked like a toy walkie-talkie he'd tweaked to receive the WWN.

"Oh, he owled to say he was going to be slightly late, he's Portkeying over from Romania. His letter hinted that he might be bringing someone. Molly's been ecstatic for days now, of course," Mr Weasley smiled.

Just then, there was an excited shout from the kitchen. "Arthur! They're HERE!"

Mr Weasley winked at him and went to join his wife.

Harry ladled some more mulled wine into his mug from the cauldron over the fireplace. It was fragrant with cinnamon, cloves and allspice and had a pleasant punch to it. It was already going to his head a bit, actually, but he figured his third helping could be justified by the way it made him feel less jittery around all the people in the room.

The door to the kitchen banged open. "Happy Yule, you wonderful bastards!"

Everyone laughed and cheered as Charlie walked in. He looked even more tan than usual, and was wearing an iridescent dragonhide shirt that gleamed in the light of the fireplace. Charlie smiled broadly as he presented the very, very muscular man beside him, who sported long wavy hair that was dyed a shocking purple.

"Everyone, this is Slavoj – the best kisser in the world!"

Slavoj smacked Charlie on the arse, but there was a pleased twinkle in his eyes. He was at least a head taller than Charlie and was wearing a jumper with lights woven into it that flashed 'SANTA'S BITCH'.

Harry suddenly felt like he was falling off his broom mid-Quidditch match. "Charlie's gay?" he turned to Ron.

Ron laughed as his brother started chasing his new boyfriend round the room. "Yeah. I mean, I'm not actually sure if he's gay or bi or something else. He's been with girls too, before, and George said he once dated a centaur. So who knows," he shrugged.

Harry nodded dumbly, watching Charlie grab a handful of crisps and feed them to Slavoj.

He was relieved when Molly walked into the room and told them to sit down to eat. Only somehow, he ended up right across from Charlie and Slavoj.

He did everything he could not to look at them.

"Tuck in, don't let the food get cold," Mrs Weasley wiped her hands on her apron.

The next few minutes, they were all busy passing tureens and plates and dishes around and serving themselves. Mrs Weasley heaped roast potatoes, cranberry sauce, Brussels sprouts, turkey and stuffing onto his plate, ignoring him when he tried to assure her he would never be able to finish the mountain of food.

"Nonsense dear, you're looking much too skinny these days. Here, have some carrots."

"Some 'ot cider, 'Arry?" Fleur leaned in.

"Yes, please," he nodded and eagerly held his glass up.

"So get this, Harry," Ron elbowed him as he ate with relish, "Seamus has got," – he swallowed – "a date with our Hot Yoga teacher!"

"Oh". Harry remembered he was probably expected to smile. "That's great. I bet he's pleased."

"Yeah, heaps! Although he's been nagging my ear off at work, poor bugger's so nervous he wants to arrange the perfect date. D'you think maybe – "

"Don't bother asking him, Ron. Romantic dates were never Harry's strongest suit." Ginny gave him an icy smile from across the table.

Ron frowned. "I mean, he might still have some ideas…"

"Harry," Hermione interrupted them breezily. "I've been wanting to check: how's the yoga going?"

"Oh, you went back to the studio?" Ron asked eagerly. "Did you do any more Hot yoga?"

"Erm," Harry fidgeted. "No, I've been doing… Iyengar."

"Ah, that's with that Jonas bloke, isn't it?"

Harry hummed and pretended to drop his napkin. For some reason, he didn't want to tell anyone that it was Yin classes he'd been taking. With Snape.

"Well, I'm glad you're making use of those sessions, Harry," Hermione nodded at him approvingly. "Maybe I can join you some time! Although with my timetable this upcoming semester, that might be really hard…"

Harry struggled to focus on what she was saying, because from the corner of his eye, he could see Charlie's hand disappear under the table. Slavoj's pupils widened slightly and he shifted in his seat. There was a smirk on Charlie's face. Harry felt his cheeks go red. He looked down at his plate.

Charlie chose that very moment to address him. "So, whatcha been up to lately, Harry?"

"Oh," he blushed, "Erm, not much." He tore off a bit of bread and dipped it in some gravy, trying to think of a way to change the subject. "How did you two meet?"

Slavoj grinned mischievously and responded in a heavy eastern European accent. "The back pages of Wizards and Wands magazine."

Harry felt his face grow even more heated. "How, err, how does that work?" His voice sounded weird even to his own ears.

"Why? Are you interested, Harry?" Ginny interrupted them. There was a nasty sting to her question.

Harry broke out in a cold sweat. She wasn't suggesting… was she? No. There was no way she would.

But both Charlie, Slavoj and Ginny were looking at him. He felt like a tangle of Devil's Snare was slowly cutting off his breath.

Right at that very moment, however, Angelina shoved her chair back from the table. "Oh god, you guys, I'm stuffed, I'm hardly even going to be able to move back into the living room. But I still think it's time for…presents!"

The table interrupted into cheers and Harry let out a shaky sigh of relief.

His hands trembled as he found himself a spot in the corner of the room, as far away from Ginny as possible. He took a quick swig of his cider, watching Molly open a slim package with a sprig of holly attached to it that turned out to contain a luxury edition of Celestina Warbeck's greatest hits.

Next up was Percy, who got a twelve-month premium subscription to Madam Malkin's Dress for Success Accessories delivery scheme ("Oh brilliant, Frankwood over at Broom Regulatory Control subscribed a few months ago, I was just complimenting him on his tie the other week"), followed by Slavoj, who gave Charlie a look when he noticed the parcel he was holding seemed to be pulsating slightly.

"Is this safe to open in the presence of your family?"

Charlie smirked. "I guess you'll have to find out, won't you?"

Slavoj shook his head with a grin but started to tear off the wrapping paper.

"Oh dear me," Mr Weasley gasped and Harry's eyes went wide. Everyone craned their necks to stare, Angelina struggling to contain her giggles.

Slavoj held up an enormous, ink-black dildo that was covered in dragon scales and glowed from the inside. It looked terrifying.

Slavoj groaned. "I take it this isn't the Beater's bat I had on my wish list."

"Well, it depends. There are several uses for it," Charlie's eyes lit up with mischief. "I got you the Hebridean Black model, since their mating habits are known to include – " Just then, smoke erupted from the dildo, sparks flying from its tip.

"Right, thank you, Charlie, I think that's enough now!" Mrs Weasley cleared her throat. "I don't doubt this… Quidditch prop… is a gift from the heart, but I believe it would be best for you two to discuss its properties in private."

"Oh, we will, mother, we will," Charlie grinned, ducking as Slavoj brandished the sex toy at him like a wand.

Hermione picked up one of Harry's presents next. He cringed as he noticed the glossy dark paper was embossed with the Black family crest. Kreacher had clearly taken some liberties with the wrapping.

"Oh Harry, you shouldn't have!" Hermione's whole face lit up as she unwrapped a first edition of 'The Arithmantic Origins of Foundational Spell Matrices,' by D.H.E Knecklewock. "Professor Vector mentioned this the other week but told me how hard it is to get a hold of any of Knecklewock's works – I thought I would have to contact the publisher myself to see if it was even still in print! This is fantastic!"

He awkwardly waved away her thanks. "It's nothing, really."

He had no idea how Kreacher had managed to get a hold of the book. He'd put off his Christmas shopping for weeks, until suddenly it was Christmas Eve and he'd hated himself so much for not even being able to complete such a simple task that he'd Summoned his former elf from Hogwarts, begging him for help.

"Master is not knowing the most basic rules of Pureblood decorum, but Kreacher is always helping Master, Kreacher lives to serve," the elf had given him a reproachful glare.

He'd still been muttering in disapproval as he Disapparated from the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, the tiny key to Harry's Gringotts vault stashed in the folds of his tea towel.

As the pile of presents under the Christmas tree diminished and the rug turned into a sea of wrapping paper and ribbons, Harry managed to keep a low profile. His mind was soothingly groggy, enough to be able to handle all the chaos.

"Alright, mate?" George gave him a friendly shoulder bump.

Harry turned around a bit too fast, swaying slightly on his feet.

"Whoa," the redhead frowned. "How much of that mulled wine have you had?"

"N't that much," Harry mumbled.

"Maybe you should stick to pumpkin juice for the rest of the night?" George suggested. He gave Harry a searching look.

Harry looked away. "Yeah," he mumbled. "I'm… I'm gonn' go check if your mum needs any help in th'kitchen."

He felt the prickle of George's eyes on his back as he fled.

Harry instantly felt safer as he left the noisy living room. Mrs Weasley glanced up at him with a tired smile, but she was too busy waving her wand to coordinate the dishwashing and store the wine glasses back in the cupboard to pay much attention to him.

"Oh Harry, you're such a sweetheart for helping out – would you mind spooning the rest of the vegetables into that container and casting a store-me-safe charm on the turkey?"

When everything was cleared away, Harry offered to go throw out the rubbish.

"Oh would you? Thank you love," Mrs Weasley said, pushing a tired lock of hair behind her ear. "I'll just go check if anyone wants any hot chocolate."

The minute he stepped outside into the winter's night, Harry took a deep breath. The air had the icy sting to it that Hogwarts had always had in winter, and the silence was the most welcome relief.

After he'd dumped the bags he had been holding in the bin behind the shed, he leant back against the worn wood wall. He looked out over the snow-covered pumpkin patch and the fields beyond. The Burrow was far enough from Ottery St. Catchpole for the stars to be clearly visible. They scattered across the night sky, distant and quiet.

He tucked his hands in his armpits for warmth.

Just above the treeline, there was the Pole Star, with Cassiopeia next to it.

He stared at them, remembering all the nights he and his classmates had spent on the Astronomy Tower, looking at the constellations through their telescopes, laughing and SHHHH-ing and shoving at each other and not listening to a word Professor Sinistra was saying.

He remembered Dumbledore's body, moonlight reflecting off his spectacles, frozen in time for a second. His body limp as it fell off the parapet. Just like that. Like he hadn't been the greatest wizard who ever lived. And then seconds later, a sickening thump Harry would never unhear.

Acid suddenly burnt up his throat.

He doubled over, retching, and splattered vomit at his feet. It stood out bile-yellow against the white of the snow.

He wiped his mouth. He hadn't been back on the Astronomy Tower since that night, not even during the renovations. McGonagall had never asked him to help rebuild that part of the castle.

He straightened up and Disapparated without saying goodbye to his family inside.

***

The bottle of Firewhiskey almost tipped over when he tried to set it on the bedside table with an unsteady hand.

He had no idea what time it was. Grey light filtered in through the gap in the curtains, but in December in London, that could mean anything from dawn to mid-afternoon.

His mouth was dry and his breath probably smelled like a decaying Flobberworm, but he couldn't even be bothered to perform a simple teeth-cleaning charm.

He slung an arm over eyes. The room spun.

On days like this, he was glad Kreacher no longer lived with him. No doubt the elf would have been skulking through the room by now, casting him dark glances as he picked up Harry's clothes off the ground, muttering under his breath that this was no way to spend Boxing Day.

He didn't care. He could do whatever he wanted - this was his house. He didn't owe anything to anyone. So what if he wanted to spend his time getting sloshed in his godfather's bedroom?

He rolled over onto his side, staring at the wall.

He'd spent a lot of time in Sirius's room after the incident with Terry Booth too. Hiding out, staring at the faded posters of girls posing on motorbikes, trying to concentrate on them rather than on the thoughts trying to claw their way to the front of his mind.

If only he hadn't been such a failure at Occlumency, he thought bitterly.

What would Snape be doing right now? he wondered. When his former Professor had walked into the yoga studio two weeks ago, wearing black slouchy trousers, Harry had been convinced he had somehow been sucked into a time portal and entered a different universe. The man's scar had been visible, emerging from below the collar of his long-sleeved T-shirt to snake its way around his neck like tendrils of poison ivy.

Harry had just blinked and stared.

Snape. A yoga teacher. Snape is a yoga teacher now. He teaches yoga, was all his mind had been able to register.

Looking around the studio, Snape's eyes had met his. For a split second, Harry could have sworn something had flickered behind them. The last time he had seen those dark depths up close, they'd been transfixed on his.

Look at me.

But in the dimness of the studio, Snape's features smoothed out into an expressionless mask again almost straight away. He'd simply sat down and started the class.

Harry had looked at his own body standing on the yoga mat, momentarily forgetting how to move.

Why was Snape teaching yoga did he live in this part of London where had he been since his recovery at Hogwarts why hadn't he answered Harry's owls was this what he did with his life now did he know that Harry had been to see him once in St Mungo's did that scar still hurt why on earth was he wearing his hair tied back in a bun what was Harry supposed to do now what was he supposed to do now what was he supposed to do now –

his brain had been a buzz of static.

But then Snape had suddenly looked at him again, raising an eyebrow in a gesture that was so achingly familiar that Harry was eleven years old again and didn't know the answer in class, was fifteen years old again and serving detention in the dungeons again, was eighteen years old again and a man he'd always hated, a man who'd dedicated his life to keeping him safe, was bleeding out in his arms in a ramshackle, dusty old house and there was nothing he could do to save him.

Harry had sunk down on his mat and copied the movements everyone else was doing without looking up again.

He reached for the bottle of Firewhiskey once more, barely bothering to lift his head from the pillows. Some of the alcohol ran over his chin as he drank, soaking into the pillow case. He stared up at the bed's canopy.

He'd gone back for a second Yin class. Why on earth had he done that?

He'd hated that Snape had seen him at the studio. Like some… some pathetic loser who had no idea what he was doing, who didn't have his life together, who lived in a dump and who didn't even know what a 'yoga asana' was.

He rolled over and dragged the blankets over his head, groaning.

Both classes had been shit. They'd been utter shit and not beneficial or soothing or relaxing at all, and he hadn't been able to concentrate during them and he hated that Hermione had bought him the pass and he hated that he'd gone back.

He should just not go back.

But then Hermione would give him that look, that look that he was sure his mother would have given him if he'd had a mother and she would have been not angry, just disappointed.

Maybe he should switch to a different class. But the mere thought of having to try out yet another new class made him feel exhausted.

He scooted out from underneath the blankets, wrinkling his nose at their musty smell.

Grappling for the bottle again, it somehow slipped through his fingers and crashed to the floor, spilling its contents on the worn Persian rug.

The sting of alcohol prickled his eyes.

When Snape had disappeared after his trial, Harry had sent him several letters. He'd never gotten an answer. And now he was in Snape's yoga class.

What did Snape do yesterday? he wondered. Had he spent Christmas alone or did he go somewhere?

Why are you even thinking about him! he snapped at himself.

He sighed and closed his eyes. What's wrong with you, he thought.

The room spun as he fell back asleep.

Chapter Text

Severus inserted 4.5£ into the machine, tipped half a cap of Woolite Black into the slot at the top and pressed to start his laundry cycle.

He watched the water rise behind the glass door, his jeans, nightshirts and yoga T-shirts darkening as they got soaked. Hopefully, the Fluxweed stain would go out of his trousers this time.

Rolling his shoulders to release the stiffness in them, he sat down on one of the plastic chairs along the wall and crossed his legs.

The street outside the launderette had the resigned early-January feel of New Year's resolutions no one would stick to. The snow on the pavement had turned into slush the colour of car exhaust fumes.

He'd been going to the launderette ever since he moved to Croydon. The place was run-down but functional, wedged in between a Western Union and a Sri Lankan restaurant that no doubt would set his bowels on fire if he ever ventured into it.

It felt like a luxurious version of Cokeworth.

He was blessedly alone that morning, no one else keen on doing their laundry on a Monday morning. He rubbed his temples, still suffering from the low-grade migraine he'd had ever since New Year's Eve at Minerva's on Skye.

If he could, he'd skip her annual bash, but with everything Hogwarts' new Headmistress had done for him after he'd been discharged from St Mungo's, he knew he owed her. And he supposed it had been pleasant enough. Her terraced townhouse by the harbourfront in Portree was just large enough to welcome the usual crowd – her two brothers, a few of her classmates from the University of Edinburgh, Filius, Poppy, Rolanda and Pomona, Emeline Vance.

He'd had a civilised, almost bearable conversation with Kingsley about some changes to the Auror trainees' potions curriculum, and Minerva could always be counted on to provide a fine selection of Highland whiskeys.

As it was, however, he'd still retreated to the library, leaving the others to get more and more raucous in the dining room as the clock ticked towards midnight.

After spending a quiet while perusing Minerva's bookshelves, he'd sat down on the sofa, his eye falling on the latest copy of Witch Weekly on the coffee table. He'd smirked, storing the knowledge that the Head of Gryffindor House read such trash away for future blackmailing.

Leafing through it, he'd paused as he came across an article about Potter. 'Hero's Gap Year After Selfless Volunteering - What's Next for The Chosen One?' the title had proclaimed.

While Potter spent months after the Battle of Hogwarts valiantly assisting a team of volunteers to rebuild the castle (and attending some well-deserved celebrations Witch Weekly covered in this magazine's Society section!), Potter is rumoured to no longer be living at Hogwarts.

Sources at the Ministry say the Dark Lord's Vanquisher was invited to enrol as an Auror trainee after the war but declined to do so. We can only assume Potter has embarked on an adventurous gap year to determine what is next for him in life, although our photographers have not spotted him for a while now.

Could our favourite Boy Hero's absence from the limelight have anything to do with his break from Ginevra Weasley a year ago? Turn to page 12 for the latest on Potter's love life.

Just as he'd held up the magazine to take a closer look at the pictures accompanying the article, Sandra had walked into the room.

"Doing that 'Which Magical Creature Would You Date' quiz?" she'd smirked.

He'd immediately dropped the offending publication between the sofa cushions and glared at her.

"Mine was a Matagot, whatever that is. What did you get, a vampire?" The corners of her mouth had curled up.

He knew his fellow yoga instructor well enough to know she was only teasing, but he'd still itched to send a stinging hex her way. He'd managed to restrain himself, though. It wouldn't do to use his wand on a Muggle.

"Drivel like that doesn't interest me," he'd responded, aiming for an aloof tone.

"If you say so, Severus," she'd snorted, running a hand through her short-cropped hair. While he went by Simon Prince at the studio, Sandra had always used his real name when they were in private.

Just then, she had frowned and taken a step closer, reaching out for his shoulder and giving it a searching squeeze.

He no longer flinched when she touched him – he was used to her invading his personal space and manhandling him after their long hours practising together. But that didn't mean he felt entirely comfortable with it.

Her grey eyes had been concerned. "Has it gotten worse?"

"Just the weather. It's always more painful in winter."

"Hmm. You've kept doing yoga during the holidays though, yeah? You know stretching is important."

He'd rolled his eyes. "Yes, mother."

"Oh, don't start with me. I know you'd rather be brewing potions or whatever it is you like to do in your spare time. But I don't ever want to see you in the same state as when we first met." She'd given his scar a pointed look.

He'd responded with his darkest glare, the one he'd honed on hapless Hufflepuff first-years, but she'd ignored it, just as she had always done.

"Just use a bolster to support your neck if some of the poses hurt too much. And do a few back openers each morning. Anyways, we're getting ready for the countdown, you coming?"

He'd sighed loudly to show how put upon he was, but had followed her back into the dining room.

An insistent beeping that told him his cycle was done jolted him out of his reverie. He unloaded the washing machine and stuffed his soggy clothes into the dryer, thinking about his class the next day, and whether the boy would be there again.

Of course, everything Witch Weekly wrote was rubbish and should be read with a generous pinch of ground moonstone. But even the most unqualified journalist would have been able to verify whether or not Potter was currently training to be an Auror.

So if he wasn't… What was the boy doing with his life instead?

And why in Merlin's name did that life involve doing yoga with a man he'd hated since the day he'd first set foot into the Great Hall?

***

Severus's eyes followed Potter as the boy went to sit down on his usual mat at the back of the room the next day. He had to give the brat some credit for coming back once more.

Potter looked much the worse for wear, however, the purplish tint under his eyes more pronounced than before Christmas and his shoulders hunched up. His hair, which had always had a ridiculous crow's shine to it in his school days, now looked dull and lifeless.

Severus traced his fingertip along his mouth, thinking.

As the room filled up, however, he cleared his mind of all thoughts to demonstrate the first pose.

"We will begin with an asana to stretch the hips. Start by sitting cross-legged in the centre of your mat. Then take one ankle and bring it forward a little bit, while you take your other leg and fold it behind you – as a mermaid would."

He'd almost left the room in disgust the first time Sandra had compared the pose to a mermaid when she was teaching him. She'd refused to believe him when he'd sneered at her that actual merpeople were nothing like Muggles' ridiculously romanticised idea of them. But he'd discovered the image made a lot of sense to his students, so he'd kept using it, even though it made him cringe on the inside.

"The foot in front will be touching the inner thigh of the leg you've folded behind you. When you feel comfortable, slowly crawl forward with your hands, making your way down to the mat with your upper body – maybe just leaning on your elbows to begin with."

Out of the corner of his mind, he could see Potter fidget. He tried to ignore it.

"As soon as you feel a little bit of resistance, pause. Only take it to 60 per cent. Then allow yourself to just be there. Let your neck be long, allow it to drop."

His eyes scanned the room, watching fingers spread out on mats, hips shifting to accommodate the stretch. Very few were doing what he suggested – taking a step back and not pushing their body all the way.

Potter in particular looked like he was actively fighting the instruction to relax. Clenching his teeth, the boy was practically forcing his head and upper body down. It looked supremely uncomfortable. It looked exactly like their disastrous Occlumency lessons had looked.

Severus shifted on his mat, feeling the old rage and humiliation and betrayal towards the boy surge up in him like a wave.

He forced himself to take a deep breath, to not succumb to the wave.

It didn't matter anymore. He was free now. That was no longer his life now. It didn't matter anymore.

"Good," he praised his students, although Potter hadn't done well at all. "Now, with helping hands, push yourself back up and arch your back, letting your head drop back. Feel that counter stretch."

A vein throbbed in Potter's pale, pale neck. It was slender, and vulnerable. Severus could almost hear his heartbeat in the stillness of the studio.

"Now sit back upright, but keep your legs in the same pose." He grabbed the pillow lying next to his mat and showed them how to use it for support. "Rotate your entire torso down to one side, and rest it on the pillow. This may be a lot for some of you already, but we won't be here long."

He got up and walked through the room, adjusting the pose of a young Latino man who was one of his regulars. He came to stand by the wall, observing Potter.

He didn't need Occlumency to sense that the boy was struggling. There was a soft humming, surrounding him, vibrating – was it the brat's magic? He frowned.

"Inevitably, you will be distracted by thoughts, sounds, sensations in your body. That is normal. Just refocus on the cycle of your breath.

The prickle against his skin got more intense.

"Soften. Relax. Deepen your awareness with each exhalation."

It was definitely the boy's magic. He felt a twinge of worry in his chest, which immediately irritated him. Perhaps he could suggest a different pose.

"The next time you exhale, slowly come back up and stretch your legs out in front of you. Gently massage your knees to stimulate your circulation."

The ceiling spots suddenly dimmed for a second before brightening again. Severus glanced at the boy in alarm. Potter was sitting with his eyes squeezed shut tightly, the muscle in his jaw working. If the brat didn't get his magic under control, he was going to cause a full-on breach of the Statute of Secrecy right at the studio! Severus ground his teeth.

"Now come to lie on your mat, all the way on your back."

At least the boy was following his instructions, thank Merlin.

"Inhale, bring your right foot down to the floor so your knee is pointing to the ceiling. Then push your hips to the right and let your raised knee drop over your left leg to come into a supine twist."

The buzzing crackle of magic in the room was not diminishing, and it became harder and harder to ignore it.

He surreptitiously cast a non-verbal, wandless shield spell. Potter didn't seem to even notice, which actually worried him more.

"Lie in this twist, with your eyes open or closed, just resting for a little bit."

Potter blinked rapidly, staring up at the ceiling.

"Sometimes having your eyes open can be surprisingly intense."

The boy bit his lower lip, his hand twitching. Severus noted how his own heartbeat began to speed up as his magical core responded to the magic. He didn't know whether to feel annoyed or rush over and force a Calming Draught down Potter's throat.

He swallowed, willing himself to focus. "Staying in this position, you're going to bend your bottom leg backwards, all the way towards your sit bones. Then, if you can, grab that ankle with your right hand and pull to create a stretch in your upper thigh. This asana is called 'cat pulling its tail'."

Potter hadn't moved his leg, hadn't grabbed his ankle - he was just lying on his mat, immobilised, breathing rapidly.

"We'll be in this position for a good three minutes," Severus tried one last time. "Take that time to try and overcome any resistance you might have. Let it fade. This is where we're at. Let it go."

With a sudden loud crackle, the spotlights snapped and went dark completely. People gasped and sat up, some muttering at each other in the pitch blackness. But Severus's hearing was trained on one person only.

There was the slam of a door.

Fuck.

He didn't have to turn the lights back on to know Potter had left.

Chapter Text

He'd almost Incendio'd his yoga pass. Just bloody Incendio'd it, or thrown it into the fire or Vanished it off the face of the earth. Because after the disaster the week before, he'd told himself there was no way he'd ever be going back.

He had stormed out of the studio and miraculously managed not to splinch himself as he Apparated home with such force it had sounded like a thunderclap.

Then he'd taken a punishing shower in the bathroom on the third floor, the one in which the pipes always spouted scalding hot water, and he'd stood under the spray for what felt like forever until his skin was scarlet and all he could focus on was the searing pain.

There was just something about Snape's voice that really bothered him. It was… it was too intense. He didn't like it. It was as if something was whispering against his skin, sliding against it, over it, under it, getting under his skin and just – close. It was too close. Yes.

Ever since the war, he hadn't liked it when anyone got too close.

Allow yourself to just be here.

It's normal to be distracted by sensations in your body.

Take this time to let your resistance fade.

Just let it go.

Had Snape been trying to send him some bloody message? He wouldn't put it past the prick to secretly use Legilimency on him to try and read his mind, try and find out what he needed. He didn't want anyone asking him what he needed. What he wanted.

How was he supposed to know what he wanted!

But in the days since, he'd kept hearing the Potions Master's voice in his mind. His precise articulation, low and yet perfectly enunciated. And he found himself wondering whether the man had actually been speaking to him, or if he'd just… imagined the whole thing. Maybe that was just the kind of stupid stuff yoga teachers said.

Clear your heart, turn into a cloud, float on the feeling. Blah blah.

The week after, he somehow found himself outside Bamboo Yoga again.

He was early.

He chewed his bottom lip, wishing for a second Ron and Seamus would join him that evening, although he still hadn't told them about Snape. He scuffed his trainer against the stones of the pavement just outside the studio's door.

Eventually, it was the sudden horrid fear that Snape would catch him standing outside loitering like some idiot that made him go in.

He expressly took a long time getting changed, trying to smooth his hair down and tugging up his socks and then just sitting on the bench, clasping it with white knuckles.

He had to go in.

He couldn't sit here.

He couldn't, could he?

No. He couldn't.

Ugh.

He went in.

He was the first person to arrive – save for Snape. The man looked up at him, and it felt like he was back in the claw-footed tub in his bathroom on the third floor, only suddenly the pipes didn't know whether to spew hot or cold water.

Snape raised an eyebrow, and Harry swallowed. The man's eyes were so dark, they glittered in the dimness of the room.

"Back after all, Potter?"

Potter. It had been such a long time since he'd heard that voice say his name. It made him want to punch the man and throw his arms around him and start crying and shove at him and yell at him to stop calling him Potter.

"Yeah," he just said. There was less defiance in his voice than he'd wanted there to be. You have a problem with that? he wanted to add. But he didn't, and only stared at the man, trying to gauge his mood.

"Do try not to destroy the premises this time."

Heat spread across his cheeks as if he'd been slapped. "I won't."

"Mm."

He sought out Snape's eyes again. Was that worry in them? Probably not. Who was he kidding. He took a deep breath. "Do you say those things because of me?" He was still a Gryffindor.

"Pardon me?" Snape stilled and turned towards him, his body guarded, his fingers curled around a bolster.

"When you… instruct people during class and tell them to only do something sixty per cent and to allow themselves to not go all the way. Like last week. Do you… do you say things like that because of me?"

Harry was sure Snape was going to sneer and say something just to rile him up, like 'not everything revolves around you, Potter'. But the Potions Master didn't respond for the longest time.

He just looked at Harry with an unreadable expression. "Is that what you want?"

The words hung in the air between them like a careful intake of breath.

Harry's heart paused.

There was… an undertone to Snape's question he didn't know how to interpret.

Snape's eyes were on him, black pools of suggestion, or of daring maybe. His ink-stain hair was loose, the tips reaching just down to his shoulders, where the scar bit and sucked its way up the man's neck.

Snape's neck had never been that exposed at Hogwarts, all that flesh so intimate Harry felt both forced to look away and unable to stop staring. He exhaled. Just as he opened his mouth to reply, however, the two girls he'd seen in previous classes walked into the room, chattering with each other and nodding at Snape.

Harry snapped his mouth shut and turned around, embarrassed, not quite sure anymore what he had been about to reply, while Snape greeted the girls and handed them some props.

Harry managed to stay for the full hour and a half's class that evening.

Instead of staying home afterwards and be called filthy traitor and heinous scum by Mrs Black's portrait, he put on a hat and his old Gryffindor scarf, stuffed his hands in his pockets and went for a walk in his neighbourhood.

Night had fallen and the streetlights were on. Most people had already come home from work, so he passed few others, save for the occasional City worker going for a quick late-night grocery run.

He felt too distracted to continue along the main road, so he took a right turn and walked the few blocks to Regent's Canal.

The water was still and bottomless in the dark as he walked alongside it, the lights of the houseboats reflected in its surface. The air smelled of woodsmoke, and there was a faint winter's breeze.

Glancing into the portholes of the boats he passed, he was struck by how homely life inside looked. He saw couples together on a little sofa. A young boy hunched over what was probably his homework. An old man polishing a pair of boots.

Was Snape's life anything like that? Where did the man live now? Still at Spinner's End? Or had he moved to London?

Harry realised he knew nothing of Snape's life these days, other than the fact that he was a yoga teacher now.

A yoga teacher. How on earth had that happened?

He seemed so different, Harry thought, kicking at an empty soda can with his trainer. The metallic sound joined the barking of a dog in the neighbourhood, and the siren of an ambulance in the distance. The sounds of the city.

What sounds did Snape hear when he went to sleep at night these days?

Harry came to a bench and sat down, pulling up his knees to his chest. His breath came out in puffs of cloud. Most nights, he himself lay awake for hours listening to the streets outside. Right after the war, Madam Pomfrey had given him a prescription for Dreamless Sleep, but she hadn't wanted to renew it the third time he'd asked her.

He still felt ashamed, and had decided then and there that he'd try to keep the nightmares at bay himself, without any potions.

It hadn't worked.

Some days, he wondered whether he should try to get some Dreamless Sleep in Knockturn Alley instead, but he could just imagine the headlines if someone would spot him.

Snape would be able to make him the stuff in his sleep, he thought. He immediately scoffed at himself. Sure, he would just waltz into the studio and go 'Hey Professor, would you mind brewing me a sleeping potion? An extra strong one would be great, thanks.' He rested his chin on his knees. On the opposite bank, the branches of a weeping willow trailed into the canal.

"Is that what you want?"

Snape's voice kept ghosting through his head.

That night, Harry didn't sleep on the sofa.

***

"A'ight everyone, next round's on me! Wot's everyone 'aving?" Red-faced, Seamus took their orders and made his way through the crowd to the bar.

They were out at the Leaky Cauldron, celebrating the fact that Seamus's date with Emily had gone well. Harry leaned back in their booth, finishing his third pint and listening to Neville tell Hermione how he was hoping to study for his Mastery at Hogwarts after graduating from the Weedling Institute.

"I'm sure Pomona would love to have you, Neville. You know how they expanded the greenhouses when they rebuilt them last year? She's had her hands full ever since. Quite literally, actually: I caught her making her way to the hospital ward the other day, some Fanged Geraniums had cross-bred with an Australasian subspecies of Screechsnap and, well, you can imagine what it was like for her to discover those seedlings…" Hermione shuddered.

Harry drew patterns in the condensation on his glass. He was glad Neville was happy with his studies, but he quietly wondered what it would be like to have such a strong sense of purpose in life.

"Harry, did you get my postcard from Angkor Wat?" Luna leaned over to him with a breezy smile.

"Hmm? Oh. Erm. I'm not sure." There was a stack of unread mail on his kitchen table. The only reason he still let in mail owls was because he'd once almost been attacked by an upset barn owl that had apparently been waiting on the windowsill for two days. (He'd ignored its invite to the opening ceremony of St Mungo's new wing for Geriatric Charms Research.)

"That's okay," Luna nodded serenely. "Mail sometimes struggles to cross the lilac weather currents over the Andaman Sea. But I'll invite you to the release party when the Quibbler publishes my findings from my trip."

He gave her a weak smile, taking a quick gulp of his ale to avoid having to come up with a response.

Things had been easier in the months after the war. Back then, he'd said yes to every single invitation.

With Ron and Hermione in Australia for a year, he'd stayed in one of Hogwarts' guest rooms and promised Professor McGonagall he'd help with the renovations. But there were so many teams of volunteers he hadn't actually had to work that hard. And while Ginny had returned to Hogwarts for her seventh year, they only really got to spend private time together when she had a Hogsmeade weekend. As a result, there had been little to take his mind off the memories, the nightmares and the flashbacks.

One day when he'd been helping to restore some classrooms on the seventh floor, he happened to pass the Room of Requirement.

He'd suddenly been convinced he could smell the acrid stink of hundreds of objects burning, could feel tongues of Fiendfyre lashing at his heels, Malfoy's sweaty grasp around his middle, desperate fingers digging into his sides as he tried to fly faster faster faster.

Harry had banged into the boys' lavatory and hid in a stall, fingers pressed against his eyes so hard that he saw pinpricks of light and thought he would pass out. Eventually, the feeling had receded and he'd been able to join the other volunteers again. He'd just told them he had needed the loo.

That was when he'd started partying.

Five months later, after Witch Weekly had published a series of pictures of him and two witches that left no room for misinterpretation, Ginny had broken up with him.

She'd put up with him longer than he'd expected her to.

He hadn't felt anything when she'd told him they were over, angry tears on her cheeks.

"Okay," he'd said, and walked away. That same evening, he'd left Hogwarts and moved to Grimmauld Place.

He'd just felt so tired.

"Here you go, Harry, pint o' Newcastle Brown for my wingman, and then for Dean – "

Harry knew the damage was done the second Seamus called out his name a little too loudly in the crowded pub. He had cast a Notice Me Not on himself at the start of the evening, but the charm stopped working when someone specifically drew attention to the caster.

"Hang on – Harry? Harry Potter?" a stout man with a comb-over and sweat stains under his armpits turned around in his chair, his hand already fishing a notepad and a Quick-Quotes quill from his pocket.

Harry vaguely recognised the man from his fourth year, when the press had attended the Triwizard Tournament. Within seconds, the reporter had waddled over to their booth in the back, other patrons craning their necks to get a glimpse of the spectacle.

"I'm sorry but you can't just barge in here – this isn't a press conference!" Hermione got up to fend off the reporter, but the man dodged her outstretched arm.

Harry felt his chest tighten – the Floo, he should try to make it to the Floo – but he couldn't, wedged in as he was between Neville and Dean.

"Mr Potter," the reporter licked his lips, quill in hand, "what a surprise to see you here! I'm sure you don't mind me asking a few questions – the public's been dying to hear what you've been up to this past year. Care to give a statement? Is it true that you declined to join the Auror trainee programme last summer? What are your plans for the future? Is there a special someone in your life?"

Harry stared dumbly at the reporter, his mind a buzz of status. A white-hot flash of a camera blinded him.

The only thing he managed to focus on right then, was the yoga studio. Its dimmed lights, the smell of eucalyptus surrounding him. Snape's voice intense and intimate.

"Is that what you want?"

***

Strings of fairy lights twinkled in the back garden of the Burrow, illuminating a big party tent erected amid the wildflowers. The air smelled of summer and laughter weaved through the apple trees.

He stepped into the tent and smiled, seeing Ron and Hermione sway in each other's arms in the middle of the dance floor. The light caught on their wedding bands and he felt pleased for them.

Making his way through the throngs of guests, he headed over to the desserts buffet, dominated by an impressive tiered cake lathered in buttercream and decorated with charmed roses.

He quickly looked over his shoulder to make sure no one saw him, and spooned a piece onto his plate.

"Erm, mate, what are you doing?"

Harry froze, fork already halfway to his mouth. Ron was standing right behind him, frowning. "I… I was going to have some wedding cake?"

His best friend shook his head reprovingly. "But that cake's not for you."

"What do you mean?"

"Ginny will tell you," Ron gave him a look and walked away.

Unable to move, he saw his ex-girlfriend make her way over. She sneered at him. "Didn't anyone tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"Wedding cake isn't for house elves, Harry. You should know this."

He looked around, bewildered. The band began to play louder and louder. "What are you talking about? There are no house elves here tonight."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "We haven't given you any clothes, Harry, you're not a free elf."

He looked down at his body and discovered to his horror that he wasn't wearing anything. He scrambled to cover himself and looked around frantically, hoping no one had seen him. But both Ron and Hermione had stopped dancing and were now shaking their heads at him, arms crossed.

"Where are my clothes?" he squeaked.

"Go to your cupboard, Harry," Ginny hissed.

"No, wait," he tried, "this is my best friends' wedding, I want to be here – "

"No one wants you here! You're a house elf."

"I'm not! I swear!" He felt tears of shame well up in his eyes.

"Be quiet! You belong under the stairs, freak."

The music was almost deafening now and he clasped his hands over his ears, trying to block out the noise. The bass reverberated nauseatingly in his stomach.

Ginny loaded her plate with cake and wrinkled her nose at him before leaving him by himself, naked in the corner.

In the middle of the room, Hermione laughed as Ron twirled her around and around and around and around and Harry was getting dizzy, the world was spinning –

He arrived at Bamboo Yoga a minute before Snape's class started.

He had barely slept and felt disoriented, and didn't want to risk Snape commenting on the sordid article The Prophet had published about him the day after their night at the Leaky ('GOLDEN TRIO TRIANGLE? Granger ardently shields Potter from reporter in bar – Weasley seen fuming'), in case the man still read wizarding papers.

Not that Snape had been mean to him since he'd started coming to the studio, actually. But still. Head ducked, he settled on his usual mat at the back of the class.

He'd spent the past few days in the library at Grimmauld's, lying on the sofa and staring at the threadbare velvet of its cushions. The only time he'd gotten up and gone outside was to go to the corner shop to buy more beer. It had taken him a whole afternoon to find the energy to do so.

He hated the way he felt both utterly drained and restless at the same time.

Maybe yoga would help, he'd thought that morning, and Apparated to the studio for the fifth time.

The young man at the reception had smiled warmly at him as he added another stamp to his pass. "You liking Simon's classes then?"

Harry had blinked, before he remembered that Snape went by a different name at the studio.

The receptionist had very white teeth and a handsome, trusting face.

"Err – " he'd tried to come up with a reply.

"Better hurry, though, class is about the start!"

Sitting awkwardly on his mat, Harry watched Snape enter the room and light a single candle in the alcove at the front, which was mostly taken up by a Buddha. At the statue's feet, there was a small bowl with a stick of wood in it, from which a slow plume of smoke curled up into the air. It gave off a pleasant smell.

Harry crossed and uncrossed his legs awkwardly. Some of the other people in the class would always start by covering themselves with blankets, draping their bodies over bolsters and lying with their eyes closed, maybe meditating or something, but he never knew what to do with himself. He'd feel like a twat if he copied them.

He glanced at Snape, marvelling at the way the man seemed so at ease in his body – so different from the tight-lipped, rigid presence he'd been at Hogwarts.

Snape was wearing a loose, moss green T-shirt that evening. His feet were bare and hairless, his toes surprisingly elegant.

Before Harry could register the fact that he'd been admiring Snape's toes, the man cleared his throat. "Good evening, everyone."

A tingle ran down Harry's spine at the sound of his voice.

He remembered overhearing Lavender telling some of the other Gryffindor girls at school once that she thought Snape sounded sexy when he talked. At the time, he'd thought he was going to be sick on the spot, but now, in the stillness of the studio, he wondered if there wasn't a certain draw to the Potions Master's voice.

"We will start by lying on our back. Then push up through the hips, feet pressed firmly into the mat. Take your block and slide it underneath your lower back, to support the sacrum – the flat base of your spine."

Snape held up a block, showing them where to place it.

"It shouldn't be so low that your tailbone is resting on it, but do not place it too high either; there should be no pressure on your lower back."

Harry adjusted his block, which had been digging into his back.

"Now simply let your hands rest alongside your body and lie here for a while."

Silence settled over the room.

"Notice how your body feels in this position," Snape spoke quietly. "Receive every sensation without judgement, without a storyline."

Harry tried to ignore the weird way he was lying with his crotch in the air. Was that what Snape meant by not creating some storyline? Wait – the man wasn't really using Legilimency to read his thoughts, right?? He decided not to think about his hips or his crotch anymore.

"Now, take a final deep breath. Place the weight of your body onto your heels and slowly begin to raise your hips, moving the block out of the way."

There was a rustling and shifting as blocks were shoved to the side.

"Come back down on the mat, but resist the temptation to move your knees for the moment."

Harry quickly pretended he hadn't been about to stretch his legs.

"Let the blood rush back through your body in stillness… Good. Just sway your knees from side to side in a rocking motion."

Harry let Snape's voice wash over him, tried to have it drown out his thoughts.

But he felt restless. Like he wanted a drink. And his nose itched. He wondered whether it was okay to scratch it, but settled for surreptitiously trying to wrinkle it.

It didn't help.

He shifted.

Peeking through his eyelashes, he saw Snape slowly walk along the front of the class, taking in everyone's movements. Harry quickly closed his eyes again.

"Next, we will be coming into a lizard pose."

Snape came to all fours on his mat. Harry couldn't help but stare at him. The man looked so unselfconscious, one with his body. Confident.

"Step your right foot forward and place it just outside your hand, turning it out slightly. Then shift your entire body forward, extending your left leg behind you in a kind of lunge."

Harry had to crane his neck to see what Snape was doing with his feet, having stared too much to really pay attention.

"Some of you may be able to drop both of your elbows entirely, leaning on them. You'll feel that stretch in your groin."

Harry's ears suddenly burnt – had Snape just said groin? But he did as instructed and pressed his hips down.

"Good." Snape's voice was almost a purr. He'd never sounded like that at Hogwarts when he'd been teaching Potions, Harry thought.

"You may want to rock your hips to find the perfect spot – just shift them in tiny, minute circles until you come to a still point."

Harry's eyes widened. It… it sounded like Snape was instructing them to grind. He bit his lip, trying to focus on the pose.

"Relax your shoulders, don't hunch them. Let your arms support you instead."

Snape's voice moved through the room. Harry quickly closed his eyes. The man's footsteps were those of a spy, but Harry was acutely aware of them coming closer. He chanced a glance. Snape was right in front of him, standing next to the older man who always looked so harried. Snape placed the tips of his fingers on the man's shoulders to gently ease them down.

Harry gulped.

"Focus on the flow of your breath. Is it in your belly? Your lower back? Your chest?"

Snape's voice was even closer now.

Breathe, Harry told himself, breathe, you idiot.

Snape sometimes went around adjusting people's poses, touching them. But he'd never touched Harry. He wasn't going to do so now, was he?

Harry swallowed. The mat was rough against his elbows, his hands sweaty; he probably shouldn't be clenching them into fists.

And just like that, two hands came to rest on his hips.

His breath came to a complete halt.

All his awareness snapped to the hands – those hands, Snape's hands.

Pressure. There was a gentle pressure and he immediately felt his body react, felt the added stretch in his inner thighs (groin, Snape had said groin), his hips pushed down to the mat and his back arching carefully.

It felt –

But before he could try and describe how it felt, the hands were gone.

Snape was already walking away.

"Notice how your breath changes. Just observe it, without wanting to change anything about it."

He was going to pass out. His lower back was tingling, thrumming – the fingers still on his skin, a memory gripping his hips.

As if nothing had happened, Snape demonstrated the next steps at the front of the class.

"Now slowly come to sit back upright, stretching both legs in front of you. Perhaps let your head drop back, chin in the air, to really feel that counter stretch."

Emotions warred through Harry. He felt stunned and lost and maybe angry and annoyed and – and aroused? No, of course not aroused! This was Snape, for fuck's sake.

"Come to lie on your back."

Snape's hair pooled around him as he lay on his mat, and Harry could see his chest rise and fall with every breath.

"You can have a blanket behind your head, as long as it's not so high that it tilts your neck forward."

Did Snape's scar still hurt? Was that why he used a blanket, for support?

"Now grab your strap and bring both of your knees into the chest. Loop the strap around your feet, against your foot soles. And then slowly extend your legs up towards the ceiling, holding the strap's two ends in your hands."

Snape's body was a perfect L and Harry just watched him, copying the man's movements.

"Push the outside edges of your feet into the strap. Feel your lower back flatten as you do so, feel it kiss the mat."

Harry closed his eyes, his heart beating.

"Push gently into the mat, feel the resistance."

But Harry no longer heard what Snape said. He just lay in the half-light of the room, staring at his bare feet in the air, his toes pale. He blocked out the voice, tried to focus on his breathing.

After what felt like forever, he resurfaced, just as Snape guided them towards the final position.

"Inhale, bend your knees and release your legs back down against your chest. Extend your arms down against the body and come to lie fully on your back. Move into Shavasana; the Dead Man's pose."

Later, in the changing rooms, Harry sat down on the bench and just stared at his trainers on the floor, wondering what the fuck he was doing in some yoga studio in Brixton. He brought his hand back and felt for his lower back. His hips. Where Snape had touched him.

He shook his head.

Just as he walked into the corridor to head out, he caught a glimpse of movement behind the door at the far end of the corridor.

A woman with short brown hair was talking to someone. She took off her slouchy sweatshirt to reveal toned arms and a slim body in a tight black tank top. Was she a yoga teacher too? The woman chuckled and ran a hand through her hair, shaking her head. The rim of one of her ears was pierced with a series of small black hoops. It made her look like she was in a punk band.

Harry took a step towards the exit, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Just then, the woman glanced up. For a split second, their eyes met. There was a puzzled look on her face, as if she tried to place him.

"Sandra, did you say the spring schedule was ready?" Harry suddenly heard Snape's voice from somewhere in the room.

"Oh, yeah, hang on, I've got it here somewhere," the woman – Sandra – turned around and disappeared from sight.

Harry felt a weird surge of anger well up in him.

He stomped away and when he got to the front door, he didn't care when the man in the reception shouted "Oi!" as he slammed it shut behind him.

Chapter Text

Severus looked at the schedule, scanning the page to check whether Emily, who owned the studio, had made any changes to his classes.

"I know that boy from somewhere."

"Mm?" he didn't look up, scribbling a quick note in the margins of the paper.

"Isn't he famous or something?" Sandra said. "I think I saw his face once. In one of those moving pictures in that newspaper you all read."

Severus stopped reading and slowly looked up at his colleague and friend. "Which boy?"

"Black hair, round glasses. I'm not sure if Ro ever mentioned him, but now that I think about it, I'm sure he was in the paper more than once." She was sitting perched on the table, swinging her legs.

Severus kept his face carefully blank. "I have no idea who you're talking about."

"Well, he just left, so he must've been in your class."

He busied himself tucking his things in his bag, trying to give himself time to come up with a suitable response.

"He was watching us," she added, not letting the subject go.

His head snapped back up. "What?"

"Yeah. He gave me a rather nasty look." There was a question between the lines.

He stared at her. "Right. Well. I'm sure you were just imagining it."

"Hm. Maybe," she shrugged. "Anyways, you comin' over for tea on Sunday?"

He shook his head. "I'm afraid I have a prior engagement."

"Ooh," she immediately smirked predatorily. "Hot date?"

He rolled his eyes. "Hardly. Anyways, I will be seeing you next Tuesday. Try to survive the weekend without my presence, will you?"

She stuck her tongue out at him. "I'll be doing everything you would never do, don't worry!"

Shaking his head but allowing himself a faint smile once he had turned his back to her, he left the studio.

***

That Sunday, Severus silently thanked Minerva for summoning him to her office on a Hogsmeade weekend rather than a school day. The corridors of the castle were blessedly deserted; the older students at the village, the younger ones probably having a lie-in or playing Exploding Snap in their dorms.

Children were never as bad as adults, but their whispers and stares were one of the reasons he'd been relieved to leave Hogwarts once he'd recovered from Nagini's attack. Just another magical place he'd left behind for good…

Coming to the familiar gargoyle, he took a moment to collect his thoughts.

A ray of sunlight fell across his path, dust motes dancing in the still air. Glancing through the window, the snow covering the grounds was so bright it nearly hurt his eyes.

Just as he turned to make his way up, the statue jumped aside of its own accord and Hermione Granger stepped out from behind it.

"Oh! Goodness, Professor, you scared me!" she exclaimed. Her eyes went wide as she took in the Muggle clothes he was wearing.

"Ms Granger," he inclined his head, looking at his former student. Her arms were overflowing with books and parchment and there was a quill behind her ear. She looked the way she always used to when he assigned his class a difficult project – mind whirring, eyes bright.

"Are you visiting the Headmistress?"

Her attempt to make polite small talk amused him - he knew she was probably dying to ask him a million other, more prying questions instead. "Indeed I am."

"I was just up there as well," she blurted out, "having a meeting with Min- with Professor McGonagall. I don't know if you know, but I've been her teaching assistant since the start of term." Her face was radiant as she talked about her new position.

The Slytherin in him wanted to roll his eyes. "Is that so?"

"We were just discussing her workload for the coming semester, she hasn't – oh, but, maybe you don't care about any of this, I shouldn't keep you from your meeting actually – " Her face was almost comical as she realised he had been doing little to encourage the conversation.

"That is quite alright, Ms Granger. But I must indeed be getting up."

"The password's 'gingersnaps'" she immediately provided.

For a split second, he was transported back in time, and a bushy-haired eleven-year-old eagerly raised her hand in his classroom. But that was all in the past. Let it go.

With a nod, he stepped onto the revolving staircase. He knew she watched him disappear as he travelled upwards.

Hogwart's Headmistress was standing by the window when he entered her office after a brief knock. Her profile was as elegant as ever.

"Ah, Severus." She rolled the R in his name like a crumble of rock rolling off a craig. As she turned around, he was suddenly struck by how tired his former colleague looked.

"Minerva," he held her hand in greeting a second longer than he usually would have.

Her hair was almost completely grey these days, her face lined in a way that spoke of too many meetings with school governors, too many Ministry fundraisers, too many owls carrying complaints from parents.

He did not allow his concern to affect his features.

"Have a seat," the Headmistress suggested, "I had the house elves prepare us some tea. Black, neither sugar nor milk, as I seem to recall." She gracefully swept her robes as she sat down behind her desk.

He accepted the tea, balancing the saucer on his knee.

"Goodness," she gave him a tired smile. "It feels like eons already since New Year's Eve. How has the new year been treating you so far?"

"Exceeded my wildest fantasies," he deadpanned.

"Naturally" her eyes twinkled. She stirred her tea and leant back in her chair, observing him. "I must say, I was struck at the party how relaxed you looked. Rolanda told me afterwards that you'd taken her up on her suggestion?"

He felt himself stiffen for a moment, before reminding himself he had nothing to feel ashamed about. "Yes. I even teach yoga now. It pays the bills." Then, with more of a bite to his voice than he'd intended, "But perhaps you already knew that as well?"

She rolled her eyes. "No need to get defensive, Severus. We weren't gossiping about you behind your back, if that's what you're suggesting. I – we – just want you to be happy. I'm very glad it's proven to be effective." Her eyes fell on the collar of his Muggle shirt, where the scar tissue marred his skin.

He nodded. "I ran into Ms Granger on my way up here," he changed the topic. He had never quite shaken the habit, honed during years of constant spying, of gathering information whenever he could.

"Ah, yes," the Headmistress responded.

His eyes narrowed at the way she looked down at her tea and took a careful sip. Even if they hadn't worked together for so many years, he would have spotted the evasion a mile away.

"I take it she's proven an exemplary teaching assistant?"

"Mm. Quite."

"Minerva."

She met his eyes, an uncharacteristically defeated look on her face.

"Tell me," he simply stated.

She sighed. "I was asking Ms Granger to take over my classes. All of them."

He waited, giving her the space to continue.

She looked away, clenching her jaw. "I'm not as strong as I used to be, Severus. Running the school – well, you know."

Her eyes darted to him for a second, long enough for him to catch the sadness behind them.

"And I've never been quite the same since those Stunners. I've felt so… like there is an ache in my bones. Add to that being Head of Gryffindor and something had to go. So… I shan't be teaching anymore."

The words hung in the air like the whispers of a faded spell.

He did not hesitate. "What can I do?"

She looked up, her face tender with gratitude in a way he wasn't sure he deserved. "This. This is already a lot, Severus. I know you understand."

He nodded. Words were still not his forte, but there had always been an understanding between him and the stern yet spirited Scot that went beyond words.

"But what I did want to ask, and why I invited you here this morning, is whether you still brew – and, if you do, whether you might perhaps be convinced to brew some Restorative Draughts and Pepper-Ups for me? Something a bit stronger than the watered-down blends available on the market? Poppy has been doing her best to concoct her own, but, well, she's a Healer, not a certified Potions Master and – "

He held up his hand. "Send one of the elves over in two days, I will have them ready for you."

"Thank you," she bowed her head. He knew what her request had cost her. It had never been easy for Minerva McGonagall to ask anyone for help.

"Well," she cleared her throat. "Now that that is settled, I trust you will be staying for lunch?"

He frowned. The lower years would be in attendance in the Great Hall, and he wasn't looking forward to being on display at the head table. "Do I have a choice?" he raised an eyebrow.

She rose from her seat. "Well, I instructed the house elves this morning to make bangers and mash for you. So it depends on whether you want to disappoint them after all their hard work?" She daintily smoothed out her robes daintily, not even trying to keep the smirk off her face.

He allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch up. He had always enjoyed their rivalry, their barbs and bets on Quidditch match outcomes.

"You know me," he stood up to follow her. "I live to please others."

She chuckled hoarsely in response.

Later, in the Great Hall, he wasn't so sure anymore whether it had been a good idea to agree to sit through the meal, however. The stares and neck-craning from the House tables felt like hands taking liberties with his body.

"More gravy, Severus?" Minerva interrupted his discomfort, holding out a silver saucière to him.

Drowning his mashed potatoes in sauce, he thought of the way Minerva had always been able to get him to do things no one else would have been able to convince him of in a million years, not even Albus or the Dark Lord himself.

She'd been one of the only visitors he had allowed the Healers to let in when he was still at St Mungo's.

Their initial reunion (him bandaged up in a hospital bed, hardly able to talk and no doubt an even more abhorrent sight than usually) had been… awkward. To say the least.

She had spent the first half hour shouting at him, until he'd sat up in agitation to retort that it wasn't that he hadn't wanted to confide in her during those dark days as Headmaster, only it would have gotten her tortured by the Carrows and dragged in front of the Dark Lord the minute any one of them found out about his true allegiances.

The sudden movement had sent an agonising bolt of lightning through his neck. When his hand had shot up, he'd felt something wet seeping through his bandages. His fingertips had come away with black, tainted with cursed blood.

Minerva had promptly burst into tears and rushed over to his side – which turned out to be an even more uncomfortable experience than being berated by her.

Once that was behind them, however, they had found their way back to their former easy acquaintance ("friendship", she would no doubt insist). And when St Mungo's decided he was stable enough to be moved from the emergency ward, she suggested he come recover in his former quarters at Hogwarts.

Returning to the dungeons – their comforting darkness, silence and solid walls, deep under the waters of the Great Lake – had felt like coming home.

But being home did not have the healing effect he had thought it would.

He gave himself time to rest. He did not overexert himself. He took almost all of his meals in his own quarters, did not spend time socialising with students.

But once he tapered off the analgesics he'd been on at the hospital, the pain hit him.

Worse than the most crucifying agony of Cruciatus he'd ever been subjected to, worse than when the Dark Lord was displeased and took his ire out on his followers like a sport, toying with them for hours. It was like Nagini kept gashing and ripping and tearing up his throat afresh every second of every waking minute.

It was worse than the hour the Dark Lord had marked him. Because the mark on his left forearm had begun to fade the second Potter had vanquished Riddle. While this mark – there was no one who could vanquish it.

It was just him, and the incessant pain he started to fear would drive him to insanity.

And then there were the nightmares. He had had them for years, of course – longer than he would ever admit to anyone. But his Occlumency had always kept him safe; the barriers he had crafted in his mind, lock by lock, wall by wall. Indestructible and impenetrable.

The pain of Nagini's lingering venom tore right through those barriers.

Try as he might, even he – a master Occlumens – could not keep out the flashbacks and visions, so visceral they left him screaming in his sleep, waking up in soaked sheets.

His former colleagues saw. Once he'd moved back into the castle to revalidate, they'd insisted on visiting him in the dungeons every few days, suggesting chess matches and rounds of cards, coming over for tea or Firewhiskey, bringing him the latest staff room gossip.

And they saw.

How there were bags under his eyes. How he was skinnier than he had ever been before. How he couldn't even bring himself to insult them with his usual vitriol.

The fact that they saw made him feel helpless with rage. So he tried everything he could – pouring over potentially useful publications, spending nights feverishly thinking up cures, spending days expending what little energy he had trying to brew them to life.

Poppy tried to help. Not a day went by when she didn't Floo into his rooms, telling him about some Mediwizard she'd written to, some advice they'd given on an antivenin that might work.

He took her salves and her pills and treatments, knowing they would be ineffective, but too tired to refuse.

They did make some progress. Together, they managed to get the wound to close, knit itself into an ugly patchwork of reddened, raised skin.

But the pain did not cease.

So by the time the leaves on the trees of the Forbidden Forest had started turning, the sunshine a golden dream (not that its light reached the dungeons), he had felt dead.

Physically alive, but dead inside. Worn down by the wound's hold on him.

Then one evening, there had been a knock at his door. He'd been sitting by the fire, knuckles white, trying to read and focus on anything other than the Fiendfyre beneath his skin.

"Severus," Minerva had walked in, not even waiting for him to acknowledge her knock.

He'd looked up with a frown. "What," he'd snapped, not caring whether he sounded rude.

"I have a suggestion."

He'd scoffed and looked back down at his book (On the Origins of Inferi – A Treatise on the Curses of the Dead and their Hold on the Living).

She had sat down in the armchair next to his, as if she owned the place.

"Do tell," he'd sneered.

Her expression had been determined. "Yoga."

"What?" He wasn't sure he had heard her correctly.

"It's a Muggle practice of Indian origins – "

"I know bloody well what yoga is! Why on earth are you blabbering to me about it?"

She fixed him with a stare. "You are going to try it."

He gaped at her for a few seconds, then let out a deranged bark of laughter that turned into coughing as his throat spasmed in response.

"Have you completely lost your mind, woman? There is no way in bloody hell I am going to – "

"You listen to me, Severus Snape," she hissed and leaned over, crowding into his personal space and stabbing a finger at him. "You do NOT get to defy fate and live only to waste away in misery and sit here sulking like some – "

"I do not sulk!"

"Yes, you bloody well do! You walk around in a worse mood than any of us has ever seen you in – and that is saying something – "

He glared at her, but she barged on undeterred, fire in her eyes.

" – and I am not saying it is your fault, because I know the pain must be hell – "

"You know nothing of what it feels like!"

"Because you refuse to admit how bad it is!"

He flung his book down to the floor. "What do you want me to do? Weep into my pumpkin juice every morning and moan about how unfair it is that the most evil wizard to ever exist ordered his pet monster to eviscerate me?!"

"But that's what I mean, Severus: if it's bad enough that it drives you to tears – "

"That is not what I said! Kindly refrain from twisting my words!"

"I wasn't – Circe, would you stop being so insufferable?" She looked ready to hit him. "I am only trying to HELP. I looked into it and yoga – "

"I AM NOT SYBIL!" he jumped up and shouted at her, spittle flying. "I am not going to wear tights and skip around, stinking of incense like some ponce!"

"Ah, is that what this is about?" she crossed her arms and looked up at him, narrowing her eyes. "You're afraid people are going to say something about your sexuality?"

He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands to avoid drawing his wand. "Of course not," he said through gritted teeth.

"Because honestly, Severus, that would be ridiculously old-fashioned of – "

"This has nothing to do with me and what sexual preferences I may or may not have. It is the fact that you dare suggest a Muggle pseudo-solution when you know, you know, how 'helpful' Muggles were to me when I was younger!" he exploded.

The reminder of his past lay heavy in the air between them, sucking all oxygen out of the room. He had never quite forgiven her, or any of the other teachers on staff back when he was a student, for turning the other way when surely, they must have been aware of his home situation at the time.

He focused on the wall, incapable of looking at her just then. Shadows danced and flickered against the stones. He closed his eyes, willing away all memories of his father.

"I will not do it," he grated out. "And that is final." Turning his back to her, he'd made it clear the conversation was over.

A log snapped in the fire, sending sparks up in the dark.

He hadn't expected the soft hand that came to rest on his arm.

"Severus."

He pressed his lips together.

"Please."

He would not give in.

"I am terribly, terribly sorry that we didn't help you back then. That I didn't help you. I had no idea how bad it was, if I had known – "

He scoffed, shaking her hand off.

"If you had been in my house, if I had seen the signs, I promise you I would have – "

He clenched his jaw so hard his molars hurt.

Her voice trailed off. She was quiet for a long time before she spoke again. "I know what I said once." Her tone was unfathomable. "But you were never a coward, Severus. Never. No matter what your father might have told you as a child."

He closed his eyes.

"Please. Just give it a try. I want you to feel better."

Eventually, when she had grasped he did not want to discuss the matter with her anymore, there was a rustle of robes as she left the room.

He exhaled quietly.

Damn the witch. Damn her to all damnation.

As the door fell shut behind her, he knew she had won.

He would try anything.

He wasn't a coward.

One week later, he'd found himself standing outside a yoga studio in a disgustingly gentrified part of Muggle London, feeling more uncomfortable and out of his element than he had in a long time, waiting for a woman called Sandra, whom Rolanda – who she'd recently started dating, apparently – had assured him was a most capable teacher.

"Hi," a young woman had opened the door of the studio and smiled, all punk haircut and dark lipstick and comfortable clothes that didn't do anything to stave off his doubts.

He hadn't known back then that that first yoga session would change his life.

***

He was in a shite mood ahead of his next class.

His upstairs neighbours had decided the night before that a Monday evening was a perfectly opportune time to engage in festivities with the most atrocious Muggle music thumping through the speakers, so he hadn't slept a wink. He'd attempted his strongest Silencing spells, went to bang on their door and yell at them, used ear plugs, for Merlin's sake, but nothing had helped.

On top of that, the heater had been acting up again while temperatures had conveniently dropped to minus eleven, so he'd spent the night shivering in bed. And no yoga or meditation or mindfulness could ever undo the effect cold and a lack of sleep had on his neck.

As he entered the room and sat down on the mat, he felt like someone had cast an irreversible Petrificus Totalus on his upper body. Pain flared out across his shoulders.

He had to actively remind himself not to glare at his students – which included Potter again, he noted – as he demonstrated the first asana they'd be doing.

"We will begin by sitting cross-legged on the mat."

He took a deep breath to centre himself.

"Step your right foot over towards the left, and raise your right knee up, positioning it above your left."

He waited for everyone to copy his movements.

"Then, wrap your left arm over the top of your knee to rotate your shoulders. Your body will come into a serene twist."

An almost audible grunt of pain left his own lips as he tried to demonstrate the movement. Serene, my arse.

"Inhale and close your eyes," he instructed, talking as much to himself as to the others in the room.

"There is always that first barrier of resistance. Recognise whether it might help you to take a step back from there rather than to push through. Yin is not about goals, and some days will be easier than others."

He decided to follow his own advice and unfurled his limbs, getting up to quietly observe his class.

When his eyes fell on Potter, a stab of irritation shot through him.

The boy wasn't even trying. He was sitting in some half-hearted, cross-legged pose that resembled nothing Severus had just attempted to explain, and he didn't even look like he cared.

Breathe, he told himself, breathe, do not get worked up – Yin is not about goals.

But something in the brat's carelessness irked him. Potter was, what, nineteen, twenty now? A former Quidditch player in the flush of youth, who – at least according to the Prophet – wasn't doing much with his life save attending Severus's classes.

Surely it couldn't be that hard to try.

As if Potter had read Severus's mind but chosen to utterly ignore whatever he saw there, he uncrossed and crossed his legs again, and scratched the back of his head.

Severus felt his upper lip curl in disgust.

The Saviour of The Wizarding World couldn't even manage to sit still for a few minutes.

Severus forced himself not to react and just looked away. "Taking one more deep breath here, we will unfold our legs and come to lie on our back."

He settled back onto his own mat, displaying the movements.

"Draw your knees up, feet planted firmly into the ground, and then slowly, focusing your awareness on your inhale and exhale, open your arms wide. Stay there for a moment, simply feeling the way the back of your hands rest against the floor, feeling them drawn down by gravity."

He was not going to look to see whether Potter had at least managed to follow his instructions this far.

"Then gently let your knees fall to one side, stacked onto one another. Feel the way your back twists, but keep your shoulders flat on the mat."

He sat up, trying to hide the sick, dull throbbing in his own neck.

"Then, for a little extra stretch, turn your head to look at your opposite side and simply settle your breath here."

Wrong. Potter was doing it all wrong.

Either he didn't understand the difference between "same side" and "opposite side", or he wasn't paying attention, or – and Severus tried to stamp down the thought, knowing it would only fuel his irritation – he was wilfully ignoring Severus's instructions.

Why was the boy even in his class? Didn't he have anything better to do? Weasley had joined the Auror programme after lazing about in Australia with Granger for a year, Granger herself was the next McGonagall, by the sound of it – couldn't the head of the Golden Trio do something showy and society-approved himself?

A part of him wanted to go over and manhandle the boy's limbs into the right position.

Calm down, he exhaled slowly, this isn't you – not anymore. It doesn't matter. Let it go.

He could do this. He could simply teach this class and ignore the pain and get a good night's sleep that night, and if Potter wanted to shift and be restless and pick at his nose and do all the asanas all wrong, that was fine.

That was fine with him.

"Raise your knees back up and prepare to come into Pentacle. Still lying on your back on the mat, bring both legs all the way down to the floor. Then spread them – feet and arms wide – a bit like a star-shape."

Whenever yoga had been too much for him at first, when his body had screamed no or his mind had screamed no, Sandra had guided him into Pentacle.

Not Child's Pose, the curled-up, forehead-to-the-mat foetus pose she'd explained was the usual resting pose in Yin, because the first time they had tried that, he had started yelling at her that he was NOT going to leave his back unguarded.

Pentacle had worked for him.

"And as you lie here, perhaps with a blanket as support for the back of your head, you just let everything go. Feel all the structures, the cells, the tissues in your body, and let go."

There were a few sighs as people settled in, started relaxing, and he could feel some of the tension leave his own body.

"Settle into your hips. Let the belly be nice and comfortable. Switch off the worries in your mind, the voices."

Yes. He could do this.

"We will be in this pose for a few minutes of our practice today."

The room was silent. Star-shaped bodies lay in the semi-dark, fingers gently curled.

Potter, however, was apparently unable to do even this, something as simple as lying on his back.

Severus narrowed his eyes.

The boy's hands were clenched into fists.

Was he going to have an outburst again? But as Severus carefully pushed his own magic into the room, he sensed no answering magic from the boy, no tendrils of crackling energy.

But the boy was as tense as could be on his mat.

Severus took a step forward, but then halted. He remembered what Sandra had said the week before – that Potter had been watching them, had looked displeased. Was it because he had touched the boy, adjusted his pose the week before?

He'd been surprised himself at the time, hadn't known whether the move had been a conscious or a subconscious decision.

He hadn't allowed himself to dwell on it in the days since.

Perhaps it had been a mistake?

He felt a wave of tiredness and irritation well up in him. Why could nothing ever be simple? Why couldn't he just teach without having to scrutinise his every move and motive? Why did Potter have to –

He turned around, walking away from the boy. Ignoring his tension.

But at the end of the hour and a half, when the class was over, he couldn't stop himself. He'd hung up the remaining mats in the room, laid all the bolsters aside and blown out the candles. Then he walked into the changing rooms, passing and nodding at José (Jorge?) who made his way out.

They were alone in the changing rooms. "Potter."

The boy whirled around.

Severus raised his eyebrows at the resentful look behind his former student's glasses.

"You were tense in class tonight."

The brat snorted. "Yeah."

Severus pinched his nose at the boy's woefully inadequate vocabulary. "Do any of the poses disagree with you? Are you in physical pain?"

Slinging his bag over his shoulders, Potter just glared at him. "What do you care?"

"What do I – I am your teacher here, and – "

"Yeah, well, I don't need a teacher. I don't need anyone to tell me what to do!" Green eyes blazed with anger, and Severus felt an answering rage well up in himself.

"Then why are you even attending these classes," he hissed, taking a step closer.

Potter shrugged in a maddeningly blasé way. "Hermione told me to, okay? She bought me a pass."

"I assume Ms Granger isn't forcing you to use it, though," he retorted. "You could simply stay at home and hide away in your godfather's house and – "

"I'M TRYING," Potter suddenly yelled, tearing off his bag and flinging it towards the lockers, where it slammed against the doors with a metallic thud.

For a second, Severus thought Potter was going to shove him in his anger – his hand instinctively reached for his wand, but clenched empty against his side when he remembered he never wore it during class. "No, you're not!" he raised his voice, narrowing his eyes. "You are NOT trying. You need to let go, you need to let yourself be in your own skin and – "

"And what, feel even more empty and useless than I do every day? Proving that I can't even do the simplest, stupidest things like lying on my back on a bloody mat with a blanket over my knees? I already know that, okay! I don't need you to remind me!"

Potter's face was white with anger and something Severus suddenly realised was – fear? Desperation?

"You're a crap teacher," Potter struggled to get the words out, they were falling and tripping from his lips, "I don't want to be here and you say distracting bullshit and I hate your voice and I hate when you touched me last week and I HATE YOGA!"

The boy's chest was rising and falling rapidly, and in that moment, he had never looked more like his mother – fierce, emerald eyes ablaze, chin in the air and power and frustration filling the whole room.

And accusing him, Severus.

They just stood staring at each other for what felt like minutes, both breathing loudly. Severus vaguely noted the boy's jawline was stronger than it had been at Hogwarts, a suggestion of stubble shadowing it. Then he turned and walked away.

Halfway down the corridor, Severus heard a loud clang that sounded like someone kicking the lockers.

When he exited the teacher's lounge a few minutes later, the boy was almost out the door already. "Potter."

The boy reluctantly looked around. His expression was shuttered, his shoulders hunched defiantly. His anger was locked away again.

"Take this."

Potter looked at the hastily scribbled note he was holding out. "What's that."

"Take. This," Severus gritted his teeth and thrust the scrap of paper forward.

The boy took it, glanced at it and looked back up in annoyance. "I can't read it."

It took all of his self-control not to roll his eyes. "No, of course you wouldn't. It's Japanese."

"I don't – "

"You," he held up a hand to silence Potter, "will go home and book a Portkey, or a flight, I do not care which, to Kyoto. Yes, that is in Japan."

The boy glared at him.

"You will go there and make your way to this address, and you will not come back until you have stayed there for at least three months. Do I make myself clear?"

"Don't talk to me like I'm still your student!"

Severus crossed his arms and just looked at Potter.

The boy wasn't done raising objections. "Where are you even sending me? Do you really expect me to just travel to the other side of the world because some former De–"

"Don't."

Something in his hiss finally made the boy shut up.

You are not your past, Severus reminded himself. And we can leave what once was behind us, like leaves scattered on the wind, Ryotan had said.

Potter looked down at the crumpled paper. "How am I even going to get to this place?"

"They have public transport in Japan, you'll figure it out."

Potter seemed to be waging some inner battle, deciding on whether or not to splutter some more. Severus raised his eyebrows in an unspoken challenge.

Eventually, the boy stuffed the note in his pocket and stomped off, slamming the door behind him.

Severus let out a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding.

That night, as he sat eating leftover Chinese takeaway at the small table in his kitchen, he looked at the sheet of paper in front of him.

"Dear Ryotan-san," he commenced, then paused.

How much should he write, how much should he leave out?

Eventually, he just sent his former mentor a brief letter, explaining that an ex-student of his would likely be coming over soon, and would the monk be so kind as to introduce him to the practice of zazen and make him feel welcome at Anzan-ji?

He folded the sheet, tucked it into an airmail envelope and licked the edges to seal it. The taste of glue jarred with the aftertaste of the cheap chow mein noodles he'd just finished.

Throwing the soggy carton in the bin, he moved into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Spitting out the toothpaste, he looked into the mirror. His familiar face stared back at him – all angular and unappealing lines, dominated by his hooked nose, frown line between his eyebrows. His hair framed his jaw like an angry downward stroke of calligraphy.

He knew he had never been handsome. Nagini's scar had done nothing to improve his looks.

Would a stay at Anzan-ji help Potter? he wondered, averting his eyes and raising the toilet seat to take a piss.

He thought of how Sandra had recommended the place to him when she'd found out about his nightmares. His first reaction had been to deny that he was struggling mentally as well as physically, to stubbornly refuse to respond, to lash out at her and tell her to "bloody get on with the lesson or else – "

"Or what?" she'd snapped. "You'll diligently keep doing yoga but then go home and not get any sleep because you keep dreaming of terror and war? And then just drag your arse back over to the studio the next day, and expect Yin to solve everything?" She'd snorted. "Shut up and listen to me. This place might help you."

Sometimes, he wondered what the Sorting Hat would have made of Sandra.

He sat down cross-legged on the rug in his tiny bedroom and cleared his mind for half an hour. The way he had done every evening since returning from Kyoto.

Afterwards, he got into bed, the frame creaking.

The headlights of a passing car filtered in through the curtains, casting a sliding glow on the walls of his bedroom.

He thought about the courtyard of the temple with its moss-worn stones. About the worn wooden floors, the feel of his socked feet against them.

Whenever the pain resurfaced, whenever his emotions threatened to overwhelm him and the physicality of yoga wasn't enough to put the past to rest, he'd think about the temple, and his mind would calm down.

He shivered and drew the covers all the way up to his ears. The heater still wasn't working.

Winters at Anzan-ji had been cold too. So cold, sometimes, that the bottle of water he kept next to his futon would be frozen in the morning.

He closed his eyes.

Would it help Potter?

His last thoughts before falling asleep were of the boy's flashing eyes, his insistence that he didn't need any help.

Chapter Text

It took Harry three days.

The first day, he glanced at the Prophet at breakfast. An article speculating on why he hadn't attended Quality Quidditch Supplies' launch of the new Firerazer Z broomstick line made him turn over the newspaper in disgust. There was no way he would be able to apply for an international Portkey to Japan without it being splashed all over the front page.

He spent the next hour moping, not sure how to buy a plane ticket and unable to muster the energy to find out.

When he and Ron and Hermione had been hunting Horcruxes, they'd sometimes spent the lonely evenings dreaming up future trips – they'd go to Mexico when the war was over. To South Africa. To Thailand. It had made them smile then, imagining they were somewhere warm and not on some god-forsaken, rainy hillside in Dartmoor, on the run from a madman.

But when the war was actually over, Ron and Hermione had left for Australia almost straight away to go find Hermione's parents, and had ended up staying a whole year.

Harry had just… stayed behind. Not travelling anywhere.

Sitting on the bottom step of the staircase (a safe distance from Mrs Black, who was snoring quietly behind her curtains for once), he tried to remember the Dursleys' holiday arrangements.

Except for one disastrous trip to St Ives, from which they had returned dragging a screaming Dudley behind them ("I want to stay at a hotel with a VCR!"), his aunt, uncle and cousin had spent most summers in Majorca.

They went there by plane, Harry knew, but since none of them had considered him a human being, no one had ever told him who did the bookings, or how.

He had usually just been unceremoniously dumped on Mrs Figgs' doorstep (or, if he was utterly out of luck, having to spend two weeks with aunt Marge and her bulldogs). The Dursleys would drive off – uncle Vernon insisting there was no need to be at the airport more than an hour in advance, while aunt Petunia looked like she'd swallowed a lemon as she realised they would be less than three and a half hours early.

Thinking about his relatives always made him restless, so Harry had ended the first day on the sofa, flipping between channels.

When he dragged himself to the kitchen to get some beer, he resolutely ignored the scrap of paper with Snape's handwriting on it that was now lying on the table.

The next morning, he felt even more restless. He stirred his lumpy porridge angrily.

The bloody prick probably expected him to be too scared to actually take on the challenge.

He glared at his breakfast. As if he'd be afraid to go to Japan! He'd defeated Voldemort, for god's sake.

But you've never been out of the country, a voice niggled in the back of his mind. And you're afraid you'll fail at this. What have you done recently? Nothing. Wasting your life. Not going anywhere.

"Shut up," he mumbled, and took a sip of his tea without thinking, promptly burning his tongue on the scalding drink.

"KREACHER!" he bellowed.

With a crack, the house elf appeared and bowed, the tips of his ears dragging across the stone floor tiles. "Yes, Master?" The elf did not even try to keep the dislike out of his voice.

Harry looked at him for a second; the hair sprouting from the elf's nose, the greyish tinge of his skin. "I need you to book me a plane ticket. To Japan."

Kreacher looked as if he'd been told to go into the entrance hall and defile the portrait of his former mistress with his bodily fluids. "Master?" he croaked.

"You heard me." A wave of annoyance welled up in Harry.

"Master is wanting Kreacher to," the elf swallowed, "to engage in Muggle practices and to books Master Muggle transport?"

Harry crossed his arms. He wasn't going to admit to tell the elf that he didn't know how to book the ticket himself. "Is that going to be a problem?"

"Never, Master," the elf prostrated low again, but Harry could see the tightness in his bony shoulders. "Kreacher lives to fulfil his Master's unconventional wishes, Kreacher is always providing excellent service…"

He cast Harry a surreptitious look of reproach.

"Master Potter is lowlier than the low," the elf muttered to himself as he retreated, "Always fraternising with the wrong sorts of peoples and bringing shame to Mistress's household, and now the Master is wanting Kreacher to neglect his Hogwarts duties to book a Muggle trip, Kreacher is not knowing why Thestrals or Portkeys is not being good enough, it must be the Granger Mudblood – "

"HEY!" Harry yelled.

But the elf either didn't hear or didn't care.

Harry sighed. He just hoped Kreacher would get the trip sorted. He looked at Snape's note again, frowning at the writing. It was all squiggles and strokes to him. Hermione would probably be able to tell him straight away what it said, she knew all kinds of useful translation spells.

But he wasn't going to tell his friends where he was going. He hadn't told them he'd been taking classes with Snape, and announcing he was travelling halfway across the world because the Greasy Dungeon Bat had thrust a piece of paper at him and told him to do so, well…

Although he's not that greasy anymore, Harry thought, stacking his dishes on the growing pile in the sink.

When they'd shouted at each other in the changing rooms, Snape had stood so close Harry had practically been able to feel the man's breath on him. For a split second, he'd noted how Snape's hair looked soft and clean close-up.

He also looked… different in his yoga clothes.

Harry shook his head angrily.

Why was he even thinking about what the prick looked like? Maybe that's what Snape was hoping for: sending him to Japan so he would return wearing the same kind of stupid, loose-fitting trousers and become some kind of zen asshole.

Fat chance, he sneered.

That evening, he found a plane ticket on his bedside table.

All Nippon Airlines, it read. Departure from London Heathrow Terminal 2, January 28, 19:05. A one-and-a-half-hour layover at Tokyo Haneda. Arrival at Osaka Kansai International at 19:30 on January 29.

He sat down on the bed, staring at the ticket.

It was hard to look forward to going someplace he'd never been and could barely imagine.

He hadn't looked forward to anything in a long time.

He bit his bottom lip in apprehension. Yes, he'd spoken in defence of Snape at the man's trial and yes, he'd seen Snape's memories. He knew Snape was innocent. But he still didn't know what to make of the yoga teacher act and the way Snape seemed so… changed. It still went against his nature to do what his former professor said. Years of mistrusting him had left their mark.

Maybe he was a bit frightened, he supposed.

But what did it matter? Because more than anything, he didn't care. He would just go, and if he got hurt, so be it. If it was shit, so be it.

Then maybe finally the papers would have something to write about and everybody would be happy.

He crawled under the covers and turned the lights off with a wave of his hands.

Tomorrow, he was going to Japan.

***

Harry sat curled up in his Economy seat (bloody Kreacher had obviously refused to fork out on Business class), pressed with his nose against the little oval window. He could feel the chill from the outside air.

When they'd boarded the plane in London, he'd been a tiny bit excited to discover he'd be sitting by the window. The aircraft was much bigger then he'd expected: three seats on one side of the plane, then a narrow aisle, four seats in the middle, another aisle and then three more seats on the other side.

Next to him sat a young guy who seemed to be approximately his age. Japanese, probably, because the writing in the magazine the guy was reading looked a lot like Severus's handwriting on the note Harry now carried in his jeans pocket.

The guy had stood up so Harry could slide into his seat when they boarded, but had otherwise sat with an enormous pair of lime-green, futuristic headphones on for the entire flight, watching films on the tiny screen in the back of the seat in front of him.

Harry had explored the film selection a bit himself as well, picking one he'd believed would simply be about two twenty-somethings falling in love. Pretty soon into the film, however, one of them was diagnosed with cancer, after which everything went very bleak. Halfway through, he'd turned the screen off, feeling nauseous.

The aisle seat was occupied by a woman in a smartly cut suit, who'd kept talking loudly into her phone until a flight attendant had walked past and asked her to switch it off for take-off. The woman had fished an inflatable pillow out of her handbag, blown it up to fit around her neck, and promptly fallen asleep.

The lights in the cabin had been dimmed at some point, and to Harry's surprise, a lot of his fellow passengers had gone to sleep.

He didn't feel the least sleepy himself. Huddled in one of the sweaters Mrs Weasley had knitted him one Christmas, he looked out the window at the vastness below.

It was completely dark outside, the sun having long since set, and he would have thought they were above the ocean because there was no sign of life down there. But the tiny screen above his tray table said they were flying over Siberia.

Just then, he saw the tiniest scattering of pinpricks of light – a village?

He looked at the outstretched emptiness, wondering who lived there, who called that village home. What did they do there all day? Did they get lonely?

He thought about the moment Hagrid had arrived on his eleventh birthday – telling him he was a wizard, that there was a whole world out there he knew nothing about.

His sight was briefly blurred when the plane flew through a fog of clouds. When the clouds cleared up, the village was no longer visible and the lights in the cabin came back on.

Harry stretched stiffly in his seat and wondered at the weird out-of-time schedule that life on board of the plane seemed to follow.

A ping sounded. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your purser speaking. In a few moments, we will be offering a complete meal service. All soft drinks, juices and beers are complimentary. For today's menu, please refer to the menu card in your seat pocket," a polite voice spoke through the cabin.

Harry's stomach growled; he realised he was quite hungry.

Soon enough, two flight attendants walked along the aisle, pushing a trolley.

One of them, a petite woman with a neat bob, handed him a tray with a bottle of water on it, a rectangular container covered in tin foil, two smaller containers with lids on and a bun wrapped in plastic. It looked like some kind of Sci-Fi version of a curry takeaway.

"What would you like to drink, Sir?" the flight attendant smiled.

"Um," Harry said, and felt panic rising up in his throat. Firewhiskey, was the only option his mind stupidly supplied. He quickly glanced over at his neighbour's table. The guy was sipping something from a silver-grey can that said "ASAHI" in black letters.

"I'll have one of those, please."

"Of course, Sir. Would you like anything else?"

He dumbly stared back at her. "Erm… two of those?"

"No problem." Her smiled seemed genuine, but he still felt a bit exposed, asking for two cans of beer. He was relieved the woman in the business suit was still sleeping (a trickle of drool glistened at the side of her mouth), while the Japanese guy was ignoring them all in favour of the screen.

After dinner, when the flight attendants had come back to collect their trays, he looked out of the window some more, sipping on his beer. It was a kind of lager, bitter and bland. Did they have Butterbeer in Japan?

There were more lights down below now – dotted through the black, awake in the darkness of the night. Siberia, he whispered to himself, and closed his eyes for a second.

What felt like hours later, but could have been just minutes, he awoke with a start, blinking. His eyes were unpleasantly dry. He shuffled upright, rearranging his seatbelt. What time was it?

He fumbled for his watch. A quarter to ten in the morning. Wait – weren't they supposed to land in Tokyo at half past five in the afternoon? He stared at his watch, frowning and disoriented, his mind sluggish. Did that mean they had hours more to go?

As if on cue, the PA sounded again.

"Meenasama nee goannay eetasheemas – "

Harry blinked.

" – mata ohtayarai no goshee-o wah oheekai koodasai…"

What on earth? This was even worse than when they'd had to memorise their first spells in Latin. To his relief, the announcement was repeated in English.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are commencing our descent and will be landing in fifteen minutes. Please fasten your seatbelt and return your seat and tray table back to the upright position. Any carry-on baggage must now be stowed in the overhead compartment or under the seat in front of you."

Fifteen minutes later, Harry stood in the transfer hall of Tokyo Haneda Airport. He looked around, his backpack in his arms.

It's all in Japanese.

He was forced to roll his eyes at himself on Hermione's behalf. Of course it's in Japanese, Harry, don't be an idiot!

Everything was polished granite floors and rows of uncomfortable seats outside different gates. Joining the other passengers, he got in line for Immigration, where they were asked to fill in a long form. He snorted a bit when he got to a question about forbidden imports, wondering whether wands were allowed into Japan.

When it was his turn to walk up to the Immigration desk, a border patrol guard with greying hair flipped through the pages of his passport in silence, looked at him sternly and then asked him to take his glasses off, so an anonymous camera could take a picture of him. He did not look the guard in the eyes when the man handed him back his passport.

All he had to do now was wait. Looking around the domestic transfer area, Harry realised he desperately needed the loo. When he entered the men's bathroom, however, there were no urinals, only stalls. Shrugging, he got into one, hung his backpack on the hook on the wall, unzipped his trousers and absent-mindedly sat down on the toilet.

Immediately, he jumped back up – the toilet seat was… warm??

His first thought was that someone else must have just been in the stall, which made him feel a bit iffy. The same thing had happened often enough in the boys' bathroom in Gryffindor tower, but feeling Ron's body heat was a completely different thing than feeling that of a stranger.

Taking a closer look at the toilet, however, he saw there was a black display at the back of the seat that emitted a soft blue light. A panel next to it featured several buttons, and a large sign that said "HOW TO USE". The explanations of the different buttons themselves, however, were all in Japanese.

As he did his business, he tried to figure out what the complex letters said, but could make heads nor tails of them.

When he was finished, he decided to try the "STOP" button, figuring it might make the toilet flush.

Nothing happened. The seat just remained oddly warm.

"SHOWER", the next button read. Would he? Well, once a Gryffindor, always a Gryffindor, he thought, and pressed.

Immediately, a spurt of something wet and warm hit his bare arse cheeks.

He yelped and scrambled up inelegantly, pants and trousers around his ankles. "What in the world?!" A tiny stream of water was spraying up from the toilet, like a happy miniature fountain.

After a few seconds, it ceased, only his arse was now dripping wet. It was at that moment that Harry discovered the stall he was in was out of toilet paper. He groaned. Sitting back awkwardly on the toilet, he figured things couldn't get any worse and pressed some of the other buttons.

Things definitely could get worse.

"BIDET" turned out to do much the same as "SHOWER", only in generous pulsating bursts, like someone had forgotten to turn the hoses off underneath Aunt Petunia's hydrangeas. Harry didn't know whether to be supremely embarrassed or impressed by the toilet's hi-tech functionality. After a while, his arse felt like it had been dunked into the Great Lake.

Fortunately, successive presses on "DRY" and "STOP" eventually saved him, submitting his buttocks to gentle breezing gusts.

Washing his hands at the sink afterwards, he chuckled a bit. Fred and George would have had a field day experimenting with the toilets at the airport.

Just like that, his good mood evaporated, when he glumly remembered that only one of the Weasley twins was still alive these days. He gave himself a long, bitter look in the mirror. If only he'd been faster. If only he'd been better at hunting down the Horcruxes. If only –

– he turned around and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up. There were no excuses. He'd never be good enough.

Later, waiting at the gate for his final flight, he slumped on a hard seat with his head resting on his backpack.

Had Snape once sat on these very seats? Harry frowned. Maybe Snape hadn't even been to the place he was sending Harry to. It would have been just like the Potions Master, really: sending him off to some godforsaken place he knew Harry would hate, with no instructions or explanation whatsoever.

Harry stared unseeingly at the planes on the tarmac outside the tall glass windows. Snape had never really put him in danger, though. Not deliberately. Not unless he knew Harry could handle it.

Suddenly, he deeply regretted travelling here. He was so weary of everything it felt like his bones had turned to dust, and now Snape was expecting him to… probably to "do something", the same way Ron and Hermione and the others had been urging him for months.

Harry closed his eyes. He didn't have the energy. He didn't want to do anything – didn't want anything at all, really.

A message over the PA shook him from his thoughts. "Flight NH 95 to Kansai International is now ready for boarding from Gate 60."

Just over two hours later, Harry dragged his battered old school trunk through the Arrivals hall at Kansai International.

On the flight, he'd been dismayed to discover that their destination was just outside of Osaka rather than in Kyoto, where Snape had said he needed to be.

Lost, he looked around. The hall was huge and too bright for his liking, with other travellers walking in all directions, purposefully pushing luggage trolleys in front of them. Most of them seemed to be Asian, with black hair and dark eyes. Harry rubbed his own eyes. They all kind of looked the same to him.

His eyes landed on a sign that was blessedly in a script he could read: "Tourist Information Desk." The thought of having to explain that he wanted to go someplace he didn't know, however, with only a hastily scribbled note to go on, made him cringe.

In the end, he simply followed a sign that unambiguously read "TAXI". He hadn't made much of a dent in the pile of Potter-Black galleons in his Gringotts vault since the war, and figured he might as well use some of his fortune.

"Taxi ride?" a driver in an impeccable suit asked him, standing next to the first in a long line of cabs waiting outside. When Harry nodded, the man bowed and opened the door for him to his car.

Harry clambered in and awkwardly showed the man Snape's note.

But the cab driver simply nodded. "Hai. Anzan-ji, desu. We will be arrive in two hours."

Anzan-ji.

Harry silently rolled his tongue around the syllables. He wanted to ask if the driver knew the place, and what it was like, but felt like too much of an idiot to ask.

They were soon on the motorway, headed over what seemed to be a body of water, but it was dark already, so Harry could make out very little. He glanced at the car's dashboard. Twenty past eight in the evening. He quickly adjusted his own watch accordingly.

Settling against the back of his seat, he looked out the window. Japan. He was in Japan. The thought hadn't sunk in yet. He hadn't even told Ron and Hermione he was going anywhere. Everything had been a weird blur since he'd fought with Snape in the yoga studio's locker room. The moment felt years away just then.

Speeding along, Osaka unfolded on either side of the motorway, as far as his eyes could see. A lonesome, neon-littered network of towers, aglow with the lights of millions of lives. Signs led to Takaishi, Takaminosato, Takawashi. Harry quietly looked out over the city, blueish light illuminating the night above. It was like London, but also not at all.

Thinking of home suddenly made him feel hungry. The last time he'd eaten had been on the short plane ride from Tokyo, but that had just been a weird triangle of rice folded in some dark-green crinkly material. He should have gotten something to eat at the airport.

He tried to calculate what time it was back in the UK. Noon? One-ish?

It was odd how he felt both awake and tired at the same time. It was an entirely different feeling of disorientation than the one he usually felt after Portkeying. Fingering his wand in the pocket of his jeans, he cursed himself for not having looked up jetlag charms before he left.

The car kept driving on into the night.

From time to time, static crackled on the driver's radio and a message would come through in Japanese, but those were the only sounds in the car, except for the low hum of the engine. Grateful the driver hadn't turned on the radio, Harry allowed nothingness to wash over his mind. He just stared at his hand resting on his knee and the way the intermittent light of the streetlights swept across it.

Soon, he would be somewhere he'd never been before.

***

Harry blinked when he woke up. Where were they?

The taxi was driving more slowly; it was still pitch black outside. The road in front of them was covered in snow. Lit up by the car's headlights, it glistened brightly.

He cleared his throat. "Erm, excuse me, are we… are we nearly there?"

"Nn," the driver nodded without taking his eyes off the narrow road winding up a mountain. They seemed to be driving through the woods. "Nearly there."

Eventually, they pulled up. "Anzan-ji desu," the driver bowed his head. "Your destination, Sir."

Harry unbuckled his seatbelt and fished his wallet out of his backpack, grateful that Kreacher had had the presence of mind to exchange some of his money for Japanese yen. The notes were crisp in his hands, and looked a bit like the Monopoly money Dudley used to play with his friend Piers.

Seconds later, the cab pulled away and Harry was alone in the snow, with nothing but his trunk next to him.

There was a stone gate in front of him with a large roof over it. Signs hung on the dark wood, proclaiming something in vertical writing. He had no idea what they said.

Carefully, he walked through the gate and followed a wide, stone path that led him straight through the forest. The branches of the trees were weighed down by snow. It was quiet and freezing cold, and his breath came out in icy puffs.

In the darkness, another gate loomed in front of him – much larger and more ornate than the one by the road, with two elegantly curved roofs one over the other. He gazed up at them as he walked through the gate. A massive bell hung from the rafters.

Peering through the darkness, Harry saw a flickering light ahead. He continued down the path. The light turned out to come from a lantern by the door to a large building on stiles. A sort of raised veranda ran across the length of the building. Harry stepped up the little staircase onto it.

"Hello? Anybody there?" he called. He heard soft footsteps inside.

Moments later, a door slid open to reveal a man of indeterminate age. He was tall and gangly, and his head, which was completely bald, shone golden in the light of the lantern. The rest of his body was hidden in the folds and drapes of pitch-black robes.

"Harri-san?" the man asked.

"Err… Yes, I mean, my name is Harry. Harry Potter." He awkwardly stuck out his hand.

The man ignored his hand but bowed deeply. "It is pleasure to meet you, Harri-san. Your friend Seberus said to be expecting you some time soon." He pronounced all the syllables of Snape's name in a very distinct way that made it sound like se-be-ru-su.

Harry made a weird bow in return, the hood of his sweater falling over his face.

The man smiled warmly at him, his eyes almost completely disappearing like two slivers of a crescent moon.

"My name is Ryotan. Welcome to Anzan-ji monastery."

Chapter Text

Severus skirted the bins that took up most of the front garden at Sandra's and made his way to the house's door, which had an ugly, stained-glass window in it. The chime of the bell was immediately followed by an insufferable yapping. Severus sneered. He'd never liked the mongrel Sandra's housemate kept, and the feeling had always been mutual.

"Puffers, get out of here!" Sandra's voice was muffled. Fake-pitiful squealing told Severus his friend was trying to shove the dog away from the front door. It was one of the reasons he had finally ceased feeling uncomfortable when she insisted on calling him her friend. Friends, he assumed, did not force friends to suffer lap dogs with ridiculous bows in their hair on a Sunday afternoon.

The door opened to Sandra struggling with the menace, which began to bark even louder once he spotted Severus.

"Hi!" Sandra panted, "let me just get this beast out of the way."

Severus patiently waited on the doorstep, stamping his feet against the cold.

In a few swift moves, his colleague had Puffers locked on the staircase behind the pet gate. The mongrel sprang up in protest, but the disgruntlement in its eyes revealed that it knew it had lost.

Severus smirked at the dog on his way in.

Sandra gave him a grin. She was wearing a slouchy black t-shirt that seemed to be held together with safety pins, her usual yoga pants, and a pair of ridiculously fluffy slippers he could only pray belonged to her housemate.

"Come on, let me put the kettle on." She led him into the kitchen.

The house Sandra shared with two others in Bromley was much roomier than his own place, but Severus would rather have married Bellatrix Lestrange than share his living quarters. Never mind the fact that doing so wasn't an option for him: living with Muggles would be out of the question as it would prevent him from brewing, while no sane witch or wizard would ever deign to cohabitate with a known Death Eater.

Sandra placed the kettle on its base, then turned around and leaned against the countertop with her arms folded. She smirked and raised one eyebrow. There was a streak of shocking purple eyeshadow on her eyelids. "So."

Severus did not like where this was going. He squared his shoulders. "Yes?"

"Harry Potter."

Blast.

"Ro told me ALL about the boy. Were you ever going to tell me the Saviour of the Wizarding World was attending your yoga classes?" She looked impossibly gleeful.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. "And why would I have done so?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because the boy single-handedly prevented World War III from breaking out, kept you from being thrown in prison and got you an Order of Magic, among other achievements?"

"Order of Merlin," he corrected automatically.

She waved her hand. "The thing I'm saying is – you two seem to have history."

"What are you insinuating?" he bit out.

She eyed him speculatively. "Nothing. Just…"

"The boy used to be my student, played a role in the war, like many of us did, and has always been insufferable. End of story."

Sandra poured the tea. "End of story," she repeated. The corners of her mouth twitched.

He glowered at her. "End. Of. Story."

Filling a plate with chocolate fingers and Bourbons, she snorted. "If you don't want to talk about it…"

"I do not," he snatched the plate from her and stalked to the living room, taking a seat on the faded florid atrocity of a sofa while carefully avoiding Puffers' blanket, which was covered in hair.

"What's he been like in class then?" Sandra joined him on the sofa, leaning back cross-legged with a steaming mug in her hand.

Merlin grant him strength. The woman was unstoppable. "Rubbish," he spoke through gritted teeth.

Sandra frowned. "Oh?"

He sighed, knowing it was no use. "He's clearly never done yoga before."

"That shouldn't be a problem with Yin, though."

He shook his head. "It's not that, it's…"

She cocked her head, not interrupting him.

He sighed. "I fear he might… not be doing well. His behaviour in class has been somewhat erratic – more erratic than I'm used to from him – and he seems to have trouble relaxing."

"Have you asked him about it?"

He snorted. "Absolutely not. Potter and I do not have the best of relationships." He noticed how he felt less bitter than he used to as he considered his history with the boy.

"Well, he's lucky to have you as his teacher. I think you'll get through to him eventually. It took a long time for you too…"

The old him would have mistaken the gentleness in her voice for pity, or worse, mocking. It was a testament to how far they had come since those first yoga sessions together that he could now simply dip his head in acknowledgement.

In all honesty, Sandra had done a lot for him. More, he sometimes thought, than even Dumbledore ever had. Definitely more selflessly so, without any ulterior motives. And she had put up with a lot of sneering. A lot.

During their first session at the studio, when she'd explained the basic tenets of Yin to him, he had simply stood glaring at her, ramrod stiff and with folded arms.

She had raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow.

He had done exactly the same. Who did this woman think she was?

She'd narrowed her eyes. "Get down on the mat."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me perfectly well. And just for your information, I am only doing this because Rolanda asked me to – I could be spending my day with her watching Man United thrash Liverpool, but I elected to come here instead. As a favour to my girlfriend and to you. So you will get down on all fours on the mat. It's for your own good."

He had had to actively stop himself from hexing her on the spot. The mat. The word alone raised his hackles. He wasn't some four-year-old who needed a little rug to play on at daycare!

But the dull throbbing in his neck had reminded him that he was out of options.

And he had promised Minerva.

With a huff of annoyance, he'd sunk down to his knees.

Less than fifteen minutes later, he'd been gritting his teeth, pain ripping through him at even the simplest of potions. It hurt too much to even clamber up and walk away.

But Sandra had stayed with him. She had adjusted the poses again and again for him, finding alterations that wouldn't leave him gasping and clutching at his neck. Had talked to him in her low south-London accent, soothing him without patronising him.

As the weeks went by, his body had slowly adjusted to the practice. And, miraculously, he had started to see what she had meant that first day by "for your own good".

A rummaging upstairs, followed by a suspicious thud, shook him out of his reverie. The bloody dog getting up to mischief again, no doubt.

He stared at the cooling mug in his hands. "I… may have suggested Potter spend some time at Anzan-ji." He chanced a glance at his friend.

Sandra gaped at him, then guffawed. "Severus Snape! Well, I never! Don't tell me you're a believer now?"

Severus glared at her.

"Oh, come on, I'm only pulling your leg." She nudged his thigh with her socked foot.

"Woman – " he warned through gritted teeth.

She gave him a sugary smile, then leant over to grab another biscuit. Mouth full and spraying crumbs all over the sofa, she asked "And he agreed to it?"

"I may have neglected to admit exactly where I was sending him."

She cackled. "Well, I hope Ro will tell me if it causes a massive scandal and ends up on the front page of that newspaper of yours."

"The boy does love being the centre of attention," he said darkly.

"Oh? That's not what Ro told me…"

"Rolanda Hooch is as blind as a Blast-Ended Skrewt and just another sycophantic believer in the brat's saintliness."

"I have no idea what a Blast-Butted Skroot is, but I still know which of you two I'd trust more when it comes to judging people's characters." She laughed behind his back as he slammed his mug down and stomped off to the kitchen to put the kettle back on.

Much later, when the plate of biscuits was empty and the sun was setting behind the shed in the overgrown back garden, Sandra asked if he wanted to stay over for dinner. "Ro's coming later, I'm sure she'd be happy to see you."

"Thank you, but I will politely decline." He could appreciate his former colleague in small doses, and would always harbour a tacit gratitude towards her for suggesting her girlfriend help him out when all other solutions had failed, but he wasn't quite in the mood that evening for sitting through her raucous lesbian jokes. He shuddered. The pair had already taught him much more about strap-ons than he ever needed to know, thank you.

Shucking on his coat, he turned to his friend.

"Did you tell Rolanda that Potter has been attending classes at the studio?"

"No. Why?"

He hesitated at the front door. "Maybe don't tell her."

She gave him a speculative look. "I thought you said Harry loved fame and publicity?"

"Just… I would appreciate it if you kept it quiet among our kind." He pulled at the tip of one of the fingers of his glove.

Sandra looked at him for a long moment, with a tiny smile and something uncomfortably similar to pride in her eyes. "I won't. I promise."

He nodded. With a brief "I'll see you on Tuesday at the studio", he escaped into the evening streets of London.

***

Severus stirred the cheap pewter cauldron on the stove. Earlier, he had nearly knocked over a tin of dried buttercup stems, and his kitchen countertop only allowed for the most minute chopping boards. But as a Potions Master, he enjoyed the challenge of brewing complex potions in cramped conditions.

The subpar interior of his flat did not keep him from engaging in his passion. Doing so reminded him that, although most people in the wizarding world would gladly see him rot in Azkaban, he could still enjoy the subtlest form of magic he had ever encountered.

Sprinkling a teaspoon of Carrockjammer seeds into the Restorative Draught, he watched the liquid shift from a dull brown to the burgundy that signalled it was nearly ready to be bottled. Behind him on the kitchen table was already a row of neat bottles with extra-strength Pepper-Up for Minerva.

Lowering the gas flame, he leant back against the sink and watched the potion simmer.

Potter hadn't come to class that week. Severus had never been a man to make assumptions, but he did wonder if the boy had followed his advice. A part of him wanted to sneer at the thought. How imbecilic did a person have to be to travel to the other side of the world, to a place he could not even pronounce, on the orders of a former Death Eater?

He himself had been much more unwilling to do so, that was for sure. He snorted at the memory.

"Listen, I've been thinking – " Sandra had turned to him after one of their sessions together.

It had been a miserable practice: he had not slept a wink the night before, memories of some of the more maniacal Muggle-killing sprees he'd been forced to participate in during the war haunting him. Sandra had sensed his lack of concentration as she'd guided him through the yoga poses, but he had not commented on the reason behind it.

"No."

She had frowned at him and crossed her arms. "You don't even know what I'm about to suggest."

"I do not need to. Whatever it is, I will not do it."

"So you're denying that yoga has been helping with the pain?"

He had stared straight ahead at the flickering tea light in the alcove behind her.

"I'll take your silence as a tacit admission."

A muscle had twitched in his jaw as he forced himself to mentally recite the ingredients of Wolfsbane.

"Severus."

Mermaid scales, menthol, moth wings (powdered).

"Severus."

Nettles, nocturnal nightshade, Nottingham Catchfly.

A shove forced him to turn back to her. "Kindly refrain from manhandling me," he hissed.

"I will," Sandra retorted with just as much venom, drawing herself up to her full height, "if YOU listen to me for once and drop this bloody act."

"It's not an – "

She bluntly talked over him. "I may not be a witch but I'm not bloody blind, Severus. You've been practising yoga, and I know it's been helping you."

He glared at her.

"And I know it's not easy for you to admit that. But there's more to your pain than just the physical ache in your neck, isn't there?"

He pressed his lips together, refusing to discuss his private life with her.

She gave him a look. "Severus. Come on." The frustration faded from her voice, replaced by gentleness. "Talk to me."

"Why."

"Because that's what friends are for."

He looked at her in disbelief.

She rolled her eyes. "Do you think I never have nightmares? They may not be as gruesome as yours, but that doesn't make them less scary. And I worry too. I have anxiety too. I can feel sick with fear sometimes when Ro is refereeing a match at the school and doesn't come home when she said she would. Did she fall off her broomstick, I'll wonder. Did someone hit one of those Bludging balls at her head? Did she break her neck??"

"There are cushioning charms – " he found himself saying.

"It doesn't matter! My mind still goes where it goes, and it makes me feel miserable and anxious and jumpy and it stops me from enjoying life."

He flexed his hand against his leg, still unused to the feel of spandex there. It had taken weeks of cajoling by Sandra until he'd finally agreed to try on yoga pants. For a moment, he didn't say anything. "The cushioning charms really are strong, you know."

She slapped his upper arm and gave him a small smile. "That's not what I'm getting at. Stop being so obtuse."

"I am… unaccustomed to discussing these matters with anyone."

"And that's okay. But I think you'll never be able to fully immerse yourself in Yin – in life – until you learn to deal with what's inside. You'll never be fully free." She spoke with passion and conviction.

Free.

The word left a bitter taste in his mouth. He had never been free, and he knew he never would.

"There are no miracle suggestions, Sandra."

"No, and I'm not saying there are. But there's a place I think might be good for you. It's a monastery in – "

"What, more Muggle practices?" It slipped out before he could stop himself.

"DON'T." Her eyes flashed darkly. "Don't you give me that fucking prejudice. Muggle yoga has been helping you just fine these past months, and in case you hadn't realised, Severus Snape, the magical world hasn't been that kind to you since your accident. While a Muggle – " she pointed angrily at herself, "has been giving up all her spare evenings and afternoons to help you feel better, you fucking prick."

"I…" he faltered. Scenes flitted behind the barriers of his Occlumency. A young woman giving him the finger in Diagon Alley after Slug and Jiggers had slammed the door in his face when he went to ask if they would consider him as a supplier. A polite but firm letter from the editor of Potions Weekly saying they were not interested in guest writer contributions. The Daily Prophet informing him that business advertisements were "against the newspaper's policies" and that they would be unable to publish his modest advertisement offering to brew bespoke potions. They had not refunded him the money he had already paid for the ad.

Severus looked at his yoga mentor and… friend? Sandra had never regarded him with such coldness and disappointment before.

"I apologise. I was out of line."

She huffed. "Yes. Yes, you were."

He tentatively reached out, putting two fingers on her arm. She had been encouraging him to feel more comfortable in his own body, which included physical touch. "I do appreciate what you are doing for me."

"You better," she muttered, but it was clear she'd already forgiven him. That was something that never failed to surprise him about her: the way she forgave so readily, so selflessly. He had never been that way himself: clutching greedily at things in life, clawing to hold on, then clinging to grudges.

"Now," she spoke, her tone brooking no argument. "I think you should go stay at Anzan-ji for a while."

A while had turned into months at the monastery. Months that had changed him as a person – so much so that, when he returned, he simply smiled when Sandra smugly said "I told you so."

And when she suggested he turn his newfound learnings into a job that would be able to support him, he hadn't rolled his eyes at the idea.

They went from friends to colleagues.

Free.

The word still sat uneasily on his tongue. But he had begun to see what she meant. Thanks to Sandra, he was relatively free from pain now, as long as he did his yoga stretches every day. Thanks to Anzan-ji, there were nights that were no longer plagued by nightmares. He did not have to grovel and beg for a job from witches and wizards who had no idea what he had done for them during the war.

He had a life. A life of relative freedom.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Severus turned back to the potion on the stove. Its surface was sleek as glass, glowing in restful silence. It was ready to be bottled. Tomorrow, a house elf would come over from Hogwarts and take the phials to Minerva.

In the meantime, he would not spend any more time wondering about Potter and where the brat was right then.

The boy was free to do as he wanted.

Chapter Text

"If Harri-san would be so kind as to take off his shoes? We wear slippers inside." Ryotan pointed to a rack just inside the door with worn plastic slippers neatly arranged by size.

Stamping the snow off his trainers and stepping out of them, Harry quickly slipped on a pair, hoping his socks weren't too smelly after the long flight.

"If you would follow me," the monk bowed.

Moonlight fell in through the latticework of the windows, illuminating the long hallway. Panelled sliding doors revealed little of what lay behind. The place had a slightly mildewy but not unpleasant smell – it reminded him a bit of the Restricted Section in the Hogwarts library.

It was silent as snow. The only sound came from the rustling of Ryotan's robes, and Harry's slippers as they slapped on the linoleum floor.

The monk stopped and slid open one of the panelled doors to reveal a tiny space with a single window.

Harry peered into the room. It contained nothing but a small wooden table with a lamp and some writing supplies and what seemed to be a thick, rolled-up mattress. There was a calligraphy scroll on the wall with a painting of a crane.

"These are your quarters. It is just three tatami mats, but this is where novices and lay visitors stay." Ryotan beckoned him to leave his trunk in the room.

"It looks good," Harry said, although he eyed the icicles on the window with some concern, shivering and tugging on the sleeves of his hoodie.

"The others are all sleeping already, but perhaps you are feeling famished?"

"Erm." Harry's stomach rumbled, answering for him. "Kind of," he blushed.

Ryotan's eyes crinkled. "I will bring some refreshments. If you would like to use the restroom, there is one down the corridor to the left."

Making his way to the loo, Harry briefly wondered if the toilets would be as high-tech as those at the airport. But the bathroom was basic and simple – and cold, much like the rest of the monastery, it seemed.

When he'd finished his business, Harry peeked into a larger room he assumed was a bathroom. In the darkness, he could make out a low wall with some plastic stools in front of them. There seemed to be several large tubs in the corner.

When soft footsteps made their way through the hallway again, Harry quickly walked back.

"Dōzo, Harri-san," Ryotan bowed just outside his room, handing him a plate with more of the weird triangle rice balls he'd gotten on the plane, and a cup with what smelled like green tea. "Omeshiagare kudasai. Please to enjoy your meal." The monk gave him another crinkly smile.

Harry smiled back. It was hard not to.

"Normally, we awaken around four for the first zazen of the day."

Harry had no idea what zazen was, but alarm bells went off in his head. Four? The monk had to be joking. He found mornings hardest these days, often staying in bed until well after noon.

"As you are probably suffering jetlag, it will be acceptable for you to sleep until seven. The dining hall is on the other side of the building, just follow the bell."

Harry swallowed. Right. Not kidding then.

"I will bid you goodnight now. See you tomorrow – rising shiny and fresh." With another peaceful smile and a brief bow, Ryotan shuffled off down the corridor.

Harry sighed. Where the bloody fuck had he ended up? In some godforsaken, freezing place in the middle of nowhere, where he was apparently supposed to magically become a morning person. He snorted bitterly. Flitwick had never taught them a charm for that.

Sliding the door to his room shut, he wolfed down the two rice balls, which contained some kind of crunchy, pickled brown leaves. The tea, which was lukewarm by then, tasted like grass. It wasn't exactly Mrs Weasley's cooking.

Shaking his head, he unrolled the mattress and found a duvet and some bedding inside. Laid out on the rough mats, the mattress took up more than half of the little room.

He undressed as hurriedly as possible so he could get under the blankets. Shivering, he fished his wand from his trousers next to him on the floor. A nice warming charm was what he needed.

Muttering the words, however, nothing happened.

He frowned. Trying again, he pronounced each syllable as clearly as possible.

Nothing.

Unease crawled down his back.

He was probably just disoriented from the trip, or his fingers were so cold his grip was off. He readjusted his hand and pointed his wand at his trunk. He knew the code of the padlock on it, but this was one of the most basic spells he knew.

"Alohomora."

No click.

"Alohomora!"

The trunk sat immobile at the foot of his mattress.

Fear and panic clogged up his throat, threatening to silence any spells. He scrambled to his knees, casting at the objects around him. "Wingardium leviosa, scourgify, levitate, evanesco, reducio – " He tried them wandlessly, wordlessly.

Nothing happened. Outside, an owl hooted quietly.

He was close to tears, gripping his wand with two hands, casting more desperately and dangerously. "Reducio! I…incendio! B-Bombardimenta!"

But there was only one conclusion: his magic did not work here.

"FUCK!" he shouted, and threw his wand against the wall. It made a scraping noise against the paper panel.

Fuck, fuck, bloody fucking fuck! This was all Snape's fault – the fucking bastard! He probably knew this would happen. Did he think this was funny? Was this his idea of a joke??

Harry looked around wildly. Should he try to find Ryotan and ask him? But that was madness – he didn't know for sure whether Anzan-ji was a magical place or not. Since he had felt no wards as he walked through the gates, however, it was probably safe to assume it wasn't. Which meant that if he went blabbing in the middle of the night about losing his magic, the monk would think he was insane – and he would risk breaking the Statute of Secrecy, which would cause an international incident. He could imagine the Prophet's headline: "Boy Hero Goes Criminal: Potter Causes Political Incident."

He ran his fingers through his hair, letting out a bitter laugh.

This was classic Snape. Why had he been stupid enough to trust the man? The joke was on him, really. He was the fool, the idiot. Stranded in a foreign country robbed of the one thing that had always made him feel safe.

God, he wanted a drink. He had considered buying some liquor in the duty-free shops at Heathrow, but figured there would be off-licenses in Japan too. No such luck at a bloody monastery, of course.

He slumped against the mattress. It was hard underneath his back, the mats (what did Ryotan call then, tatami?) not giving an inch. Turning his head towards the little table, he sat back up and drew the duvet around him. He'd tell the bloody Potions Master exactly what he thought of him!

Grabbing some paper from his backpack, his Muggle biro raced over the paper.

Snape,
YOU'RE A PRICK. Did you know my magic wouldn't work here?
This is low, even for you. I can't believe you did this. Fuck you and fuck your "advice".
I'm not staying here a day longer than I have to, and you can be damn sure I'm never coming to your fucking classes again either.
/HP

Folding the letter, he vowed to send it the next day.

There was nothing to it now but to try and sleep, he supposed. The only comforting thought was that he would only be spending one night in this damned place, because he meant what he had written to Snape.

Dragging the duvet up all the way to his ears, he stared angrily into the dark. He wanted his magic. He wanted a drink. He wanted to be warm.

He wanted anything but this.

He hated this. Everything sucked.

And he wasn't even tired! Looking at his watch, he tried to calculate what time it was back in London. Five in the afternoon?

He sighed, turning to his other side. A ray of moonlight slivered through the window, illuminating the scroll on the wall.

It took a long time until sleep finally claimed him.

***

Bunggggggggg.

Harry groaned and cracked his eyes open. For the briefest second, he had no idea where he was. All he could register was that it was freezing and a very loud, low clanging had woken him up.

Then it all came back to him. Anzan-ji. The monastery. He was in Japan. And his magic didn't work.

Dull despair settled in his stomach. What was the point. What was the point of anything?

He stared at the ceiling, unable to make out any details without his glasses. He was tired, it was much too early and he didn't want the day to start.

Closing his eyes again, he tried to go back to sleep, but the cold made it difficult. The tip of his nose had turned to ice overnight. Resigned, he got out of bed, pulling on a jumper as well as his hoodie. His watch told him it was seven in the morning. Sliding open the door, he peered out into the corridor, but it seemed as deserted as the night before. Further into the building, however, there was a low rumbling of voices.

After a quick visit to the bathroom, Harry followed the sounds until he came to a large room with three communal tables that reminded him a bit of the House tables in the Great Hall.

Rows of monks sat eating breakfast, bowed over their meals, their shaved heads shining in the morning sun that poured in through the windows. One side of the room opened up to a kitchen, where three more monks were stirring big pots that sent twirls of steam into the air.

Harry felt awkward standing in the doorway, not quite knowing what the procedure was. One of the men in the kitchen, a short monk with dark, surprisingly symmetrical eyebrows, looked up at him and gave him a brief, friendly nod. The monk kept working as he did, lifting one of the pots and carrying it over to the tables.

Harry gave him a polite nod back.

Luckily, Ryotan caught sight of him just then. He waved for Harry to come sit with him. A few of the other monks looked up, but no one said anything. They concentrated on the bowls in front of them, eating with a dogged efficiency. As if finishing their meal was the most important task in the world right then.

"Ohayō gozaimasu, Harri-san. Did you have a restful sleep?"

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "Err, I had some trouble falling asleep. I'm not really a morning person."

Ryotan smiled and pushed a bowl over to him. "Here, okayu. It will help."

Harry wasn't so sure as he observed the food. The "okayu" looked like watery rice porridge with little else to it. A first spoonful confirmed his suspicions. It tasted like less than nothing.

"Our daily breakfast," Ryotan added, watching him eat.

He was definitely not staying, Harry thought, stirring his porridge glumly.

A few minutes later, there was a sudden rushing scraping of chairs, as everyone dropped their spoons and rose to stand. Harry hurried to follow.

A man who seemed to be in his seventies, with a few wisps of white hair on his chin and wrinkles lining his forehead, got up.

"Abbot Eishō," Ryotan whispered in introduction.

"Otsugaresama desu," the abbot spoke in a surprisingly firm voice, then made his way from the room. The other monks echoed his words, then lined up to set their empty bowls on the kitchen's metal countertop and left the room as well.

Ryotan turned to Harry. "There is a brief rest period now before our next zazen session." Seeing Harry's blank look, he chuckled. "Do not be worry, I will explain everything to you."

Harry felt it would be impolite to tell the monk right then that he didn't plan on staying. Besides, he felt too tired to figure out how, exactly, to get back to the airport.

"Tengen," Ryotan called out to the monk in the kitchen who had nodded at Harry before, asking him something in Japanese. Tengen nodded and came over with two hot cups of the same grassy tea Harry had drunk the night before.

"Welcome," Tengen spoke with a thick accent, placing his palms together and adding something in Japanese before heading back to the kitchen.

Harry looked at Ryotan.

"Most of the brothers do not speak English," the monk explained, "but all wish you well in your studies here with us. Tengen is in charge of the kitchen and our dining needs. He welcomes you."

"How many monks live here?" Harry asked.

"Twenty, including senior monks like me and Tengen, junior monks and novices. And sometimes, a visitor wishing to deepen his understanding of Sōtō Zen."

"Sōtō Zen?"

Ryotan hummed. "The main form of Buddhism in Japan, and the one we practise here. There are more than fifteen-thousand temples like Anzan-ji around the country who follow the way of zen. Tell me, Harri-san, are you religious?"

It was an unexpected question. Was he religious?

Harry thought of Christmas and Easter, when the Dursleys would attend mass in the local C of E church in Little Whinging, dragging him along wearing one of Dudley's much too big suits. Aunt Petunia had always been infuriated by how no amount of combing would make his hair lie flat on those occasions.

He thought of dying in the Forbidden Forest, about seeing Dumbledore at King's Cross and coming back.

"I'm not sure."

"Do not worry. Zen will likely be very different from what you are used to," Ryotan assured him. "We emphasise insight. Into nature, into the mind, into life. Harmony with everything. This is best found through regular daily meditation practices with a mentor or teacher. You do not have to worship any deities here, Harri-san." Again, there was that smile, which made Ryotan's eyes look like the first rays of sun, the promise of a summer's day.

"Uh, okay."

"To facilitate our learnings, we keep to a schedule every day. At 4:30, there is the first zazen of the day. Then from 5:30 to 6, sutras in the main hall. From 6 to 7, chores until breakfast. After breakfast, a brief rest, followed by ten more zazen sessions during the day, as well as chores and periods of private study. Dinner is at 5. You are welcome to engage in solitary evening meditation. Most of us retire for the night at 9."

Harry's head was spinning. There were chores? Studying? Multiple sessions of this thing called zazen? The day started at 4:30?? He didn't know whether to laugh at the madness of it all or try to Apparate straight back to London to strangle Snape with his bare hands.

Then he remembered he wouldn't even be able to Apparate, as he had no bloody magic. "I'm not sure if I – " he began, ready to explain that coming here had been a big mistake.

But Ryotan patted him on the hand, misunderstanding. "Do not be worrying, Harri-san. You do not need to memorise the schedule. We ring the gong outside the kitchen or the meditation hall when it is time for zazen or meals, and Kaizen will clap his wood blocks at other times."

"Kaizen?"

"Our timekeeper brother," Ryotan simply said.

Harry slumped in his chair. He had a headache and wanted to go back to his room for a nap.

"Would you like more tea?"

"Hu? Uh, no, thank you, I'm good." He supposed there was no use asking if they had any regular English Breakfast.

"Then I will give you a tour of your new home, Harri-san!"

Harry smiled feebly, unable to muster any enthusiasm.

The monastery was bigger than he had imagined. Different buildings – simple wooden structures – were spread out on the mountainside, connected to each other by covered wooden walkways.

"Anzan-ji is more than 740 years old," Ryotan informed him as they hurried through the cold to another building that was much more ornate than the one with the kitchen and bedrooms.

Irritated as he was, Harry still had to admit the grounds looked rather beautiful, blanketed in snow. Maples and cedars were dusted in the whitest white, making the forest glitter in the early morning light. There was a frozen pond nearby, while the peaks of the mountain range rose majestically on the horizon.

He breathed in deeply. The air filling his lungs was so crisp it stung his chest.

"Yesterday as you arrived," Ryotan spoke, "you walked first through the outer gate, then the sanmon gate. Passing the sanmon is important: it helps you let go of your greed, hatred and foolishness."

Harry snorted. He could almost hear Snape berating him for his "foolishness" and other sins.

"This is the zendō, our meditation hall." They walked across the veranda of the next building and entered it.

The space was minimalist and very quiet. Muted light filtered in through the latticed paper windows that obscured the view outside. Along both walls, folded blankets were laid at regular intervals on raised benches. The benches were covered in the same mats as the ones in his room. There was little else in the space, except for a thin wooden stick leaning against the wall.

"You will get to practise your first zazen session here this afternoon," Ryotan waved at the room with his hand.

Harry still had no clue what zazen was.

Next, they went to a hall Ryotan said was used for lectures (probably like History of Magic, Harry thought morosely) and then a much more elaborate one, the Buddha hall. "Here, we chant and recite the sutras each morning."

In the middle of the hall stood what looked like an altar, with vases of flowers, a few flickering candles and three gilded statues. "Buddha's past, present and future," Ryotan pointed.

Harry mainly thought the statues looked like chubby old men with weirdly long ears. "I thought you said you didn't worship any gods here?"

Ryotan chuckled. "We don't. We simply come here to pay our respects to Buddha for his teachings."

"That still kind of sounds like praying to me," he frowned.

"In Zen, we believe everything in the universe is one - you, me, the Buddha. We are all the same. So if the Buddha is part of me, how could I direct my prayers at him?"

Harry stared at the monk.

"Come, I will present you with your robes," Ryotan smiled.

They made their way back to the dormitory building. As they did, Harry spotted several smaller courtyards. Some were walled in and intimate, others had trails of stepping stones leading into the forest. Two monks were sweeping the snow off the paths.

Back inside, Ryotan gave him a voluminous set of dark-blue robes. "Perhaps you would like to change in your rooms?"

Back in his bedroom, Harry looked down at the heavy bundle of fabric in his arms. The cloth was worn and rough to the touch.

He should just leave. Go home. But what was waiting for him at home? He thought of Sirius's bedroom at Grimmauld's, of the sheets he could never be bothered changing and the lewd pictures on the wall. He thought of the library with its cobwebs and grimoires on dark magic. Of the kitchen, which he never used except to eat his takeaway meals in. There would probably still be dishes in the sink.

He stared at his wand, which still lay in a corner of the room where he'd thrown it down the day before.

He would have his magic back if he returned.

He closed his eyes. He'd had a pounding headache since breakfast. Not for the first time that day, he wondered if the monks ever drank any alcohol.

"Are you managing, Harri-san?" Ryotan's muffled voice sounded from outside the sliding door.

"Err, yes, hang on a sec."

Not wanting to think about his life back in London right now, Harry decided to just go along with things for the day and quickly changed into the robes. They were loose-fitting and heavy.

Sliding the panel open, he found Ryotan beaming at him. The twinkle in the man's eyes painfully reminded him of Dumbledore.

"Now, Harri-san, your zen learnings can begin."

***

At the end of his first day, Harry was exhausted, strung-out, hungry and grumpy. He also hated Snape more than ever before.

He had no idea what, if anything, Snape thought Harry would gain from being at the monastery. It wasn't going to make him any better at yoga, that was for sure. When Ryotan had told him it was time for his first zazen session, Harry had figured "zazen" would be another kind of yoga. When he'd mentioned that to the monk, the man had chuckled for a good half minute before shaking his head.

"No, Harri-san – there is no yoga in Sōtō Zen. There is just sitting."

What he'd meant by that had become horribly clear to Harry over the next hour – although it felt like much, much longer than an hour.

They'd all gathered in the sober hall with the raised benches and proceeded to sit cross-legged, each of them on their own folded-blanket, and… stare at the wall.

Harry had hardly been able to believe it. "This is it?" he'd whispered at Ryotan. They were going to stare at the wall??

Ryotan had inclined his head minutely, mouthed "try", and placed a finger against his lips for him to be quiet.

He had tried. He really had. But after less than five minutes, he'd gotten restless. Sneaking a glance over his shoulder, he'd seen the others sit still as statues. It was obvious he wasn't supposed to move.

No sooner had he thought that, than his nose had started to itch. He'd fought the urge to scratch it for as long as he could, but had eventually been forced to rub it.

Then he'd stared at the wall again. It was made of the same thick, papery material the walls of his bedroom were made of. Off-white. The vaguest pattern of grey speckles in it, perhaps. Flat. Uninteresting. A wall, basically.

His thoughts drifted to Ron and Hermione. Would Hermione be teaching now? Was Ron at the Auror Academy? He didn't even know what time it was in London. He snuck a quick glance at his watch, only to remember he'd taken it off when he'd changed into his robes earlier.

They must have been sitting there for at least fifteen minutes.

He stared at the wall some more.

His left knee felt uncomfortable from sitting cross-legged. Maybe he could shift to another pose. If he did so really, really slowly, surely no one would notice? The second he moved his foot, however, the bench creaked.

He sighed loudly. No luck. He'd just have to sit there staring at the wall.

The wall stared back at him.

GOD, he was bored. This zazen business was worse than the worst History of Magic lecture he'd ever been forced to sit through. At least at school, there had been Binns' droning to listen to and lull him to sleep, and he could use his desk as a pillow. Here, he didn't even have that.

Fucking Snape. It was all his fault.

Had the bastard been at Anzan-ji himself? Had he sat on these benches?

Harry wrinkled his nose. How on earth could anyone find this restful or interesting or helpful in any way? If that's what had turned Snape into a yoga teacher, or what it took to be able to relax during Yin classes, he was out.

You had to be mental to want to do this. And Ryotan had said there were multiple zazen sessions a day. Even before breakfast. Harry barely managed to stifle a groan.

But then again, Snape had always been a masochist. Sure, his masochism had helped them win the war, and he deserved all the credit for that – but this wasn't healthy, Harry thought.

What seemed like eons later, a sudden clack-clack behind him had him whipping around his head so fast he was sure he'd sprained a muscle.

One of the monks he'd seen at breakfast, a very skinny man with a slight stoop and a sour look on his face, held two wooden blocks in his hand. He must have clacked them against each other to mark the end of the session (or so Harry hoped).

Please Lord, let this torment be over.

Sure enough, all the monks got off their blankets and shuffled out of the room. Harry turned to Ryotan.

"Time for lunch!" The monk looked as though he had just spent a pleasant hour playing Exploding Snap with friends rather than sitting through the detention from hell.

As they made their way through the cold back to the dormitory building, Harry ventured "Is err… is this your main activity here at Anzan-ji?" He desperately needed to hear the monk say there was an alternative schedule he might be able to stick to instead, one with zero zazen.

"Oh, we have many pastimes here. After lunch, we will be assigned our task for the day. Not to worry, Harri-san, there will be one for you too."

Harry tried to school his face into a smile. It probably looked more like a grimace.

Lunch consisted of rice, a salty broth with chunks of carrots in it, and some thick, unidentifiable bean stew.

Again, most of the monks ate quickly and quietly, three bowls in front of each them this time. Ryotan leant towards him and spoke quietly. "It is considered bad practice to get too attached to your food and finish after the abbot, so do your best to eat at a moderately fast pace."

Harry glanced towards the monk at the head of the table who apparently dictated the eating habits of all the other monks, and wondered how on earth he was supposed to "not be too attached to his food" when he was pretty hungry. He tried to keep up with the others but struggled, unused to the chopsticks. His food kept slipping from his grasp.

"The meals we prepare and consume at Anzan-ji are all vegetarian. Some of the novices and junior monks do the cooking; you may be called upon to assist them one day. Washing up is another one of the daily activities we share."

Harry sighed.

When most of the monks had emptied their small bowls, two old metal kettles were passed around, along with a small plate with slivers of something pale yellow on it.

"This is for the cleaning of our eating supplies – boiling water and daikon vegetable." Ryotan picked up one of the slices, dropped it in his leftmost empty bowl, then poured hot water over it. With his chopsticks, he scooted the slice around, mopping his bowl. When he was finished, he did the same with the other bowls, cleaning each of them in turn.

Harry followed his example, observing the others. When the monks were done, they poured the remaining cloudy water in a large bowl that was passed around for that purpose. Weird, was all Harry could think. He shuddered at the thought that that would be how the house elves at Hogwarts washed dishes.

The abbot rose from the table and said something in Japanese again. Everyone bowed and got up to leave.

"Today, you and I will be tending to the bathing facilities, Harri-san," Ryotan said, as if announcing Zonko's was opening a branch in Kyōto.

Half an hour later, Harry was on his knees in the communal bathroom, scrubbing the grout between the tiles. Ryotan was on the other end of the room, wiping a chamois over the taps along the tiled wall.

They did not speak "We perform our chores in silence," Ryotan had explained, handing him some detergent and a brush.

"How long do we have to do this?"

"Until it is time to stop," the monk had simply said. "There is no ambition to finish, Harri-san; just do the best you can."

Unsure how he was supposed to interpret that, Harry had set to work. It wasn't a pleasant way to spend the afternoon, by any measure: the detergent stung his skin, and within a few minutes, his back started to hurt from crouching forward.

It reminded him of the hours he had spent in similar positions, doing similar labour at the Dursleys. The memory of Aunt Petunia yelling at him when she'd discovered there was still a dried-up drop of water on the bathroom mirror didn't do anything to lift his spirits.

Still, it was better than zazen.

Coming to the end of one section, he straightened up, hands on his lower back.

He looked around the bathroom. It was a simple affair, but very different from the one he'd shared with the other boys in Gryffindor Tower. There were no shower stalls or sinks here; instead, it looked more like a shower room at a public swimming pool.

(He knew because he'd been to one once, when Dudley had been invited by Christopher, one of his classmates in primary school, and Christopher's mother had assumed Harry would join them for the outing when she came to pick Dudley up. Aunt Petunia had looked like she'd just swallowed bleach when she waved them off.)

Two low, tiled walls ran through the bathroom. Both were outfitted with five taps on each side, and a single long mirror at the top of the wall. Between the taps, there were small baskets with off-brand soap and shampoo. Or that was what Harry assumed they were; he couldn't actually read what the labels on the bottles said.

He figured the small plastic stools he'd seen the evening before, when he arrived, were so you could sit in front of the taps and wash yourself. It felt like a bizarre way of showering.

He was more interested in the three half-sunken tubs on the far side of the room, which reminded him of the one in the Prefect's bathroom Cedric had given him access to during the Triwizard Tournament. The tubs were empty right now, but looked like you could have a good, long soak in them.

Harry hadn't been truly warm at any point during the day, so he stared at them longingly, imagining the room fogging up with hot steam.

When he heard Ryotan turn on one of the tabs to mop the floor, he twisted back to the wall to keep scrubbing. Almost immediately, however, they were interrupted by the sound of the same bell somewhere.

"Ah, time to be ending our chore," Ryotan said.

They dropped their supplies in the cleaning cabinet by the door.

"Feel free to use the bathroom here whenever you like, Harri-san. Our habit is to bathe once every five days."

Great. That was his dream of lounging in the tubs, gone. "What do we do now?"

"Now, we do more zazen," Ryotan clasped his hands in front of his stomach beatifically.

Suddenly, scrubbing the bathroom seemed like a very pleasant activity indeed.

Several hours later, when it was time for dinner (leftovers from lunch), Harry knew Ryotan had not been kidding when he'd said "more zazen". There had been five more sessions during the afternoon. FIVE. And in between, they'd continued cleaning, moving on to the loos.

Harry wanted to drop his forehead to the table, into his rice. Coming to Anzan-ji was the biggest mistake of his life. It was like Flobberworms, Trelawney's tea leaf-reading, cramming for OWLS and reading Lockhart's biography combined. Like the worst detention he'd ever had with Snape.

Snape.

Harry angrily swallowed another mouthful of the bland pickle stew. He wished he could have a drink with his meal.

Was this Snape's idea of a challenge? That would be just like him, actually: to set Harry a challenge when he suspected Harry wasn't doing well, and then mock him mercilessly when it turned out he couldn't do it.

Harry gripped his chopsticks hard.

He couldn't leave, he realised – because then Snape would never let him live it down. He wouldn't even put it past the man to talk to Ron and Seamus at the studio one day, and tell them all about it.

His knuckles were white and his hands trembled. He had to stay. There was nothing else to it.

Three months.

Fucking Snape.

When the meal was over, he caught up with Ryotan.

"Erm, Ryotan? Can I ask you something?"

"Hai, Harri-san?"

"Did uhh…." He had no idea how to phrase his question – he couldn't very well ask if the monastery had an owlery. "Did Severus ever, uhh, go… bird-watching?"

Ryotan cocked his head.

Harry felt ridiculous.

"Bird-watching?" the monk spoke, tapping his index finger against his lips, as if he was genuinely considering the question. "I do not know if Seberus-san liked birds. He did sometimes practise kinshin in the forest, though."

"Kinshin?"

"Nn, walking meditation."

Harry almost rolled his eyes. More meditation. "So, err, he never… just went for a walk in his spare time?"

Ryotan's smile was hard to read. "I do not presume to know, Harri-san. Seberus-san was free to do what he wanted to do during his private mediation time."

Harry exhaled loudly. Leave it to Snape to send him to a place where he not only didn't have any magic, he also couldn't even figure out how to communicate with the wizarding world.

"Why? Is there anything I can help?" Ryotan asked.

"I'd like to send a letter to Sn- to… Seberus-san." It felt weird calling Snape by the name Ryotan used, but he didn't want to let his animosity show too much. That probably wouldn't be "Zen" of him. (Although Zen could go fuck itself in the arse.)

"Of course, one of the novices can mail it when they travel into town for meal supplies tomorrow."

"Oh, thank you!" It was only then that he realised he did not actually know where Snape lived.

"Not to be worrying, Harri-san," Ryotan accepted the letter with a smile. "Seberus-san and I regularly correspond, I know where to postage it."

Harry blinked. Snape and Ryotan were penpals?

"Now I will bid you goodnight, Harri-san. You are welcome to spend the time until bedtime in the meditation hall, if you would like."

Harry smiled feebly. "I'll keep that in mind." He would rather eat Hagrid's rock cakes for breakfast for a year than voluntarily spend more time sitting on a blanket.

Back in his room, Harry sighed and slumped down on his mattress. It was still freezing, so he pulled the duvet over him and lay staring at the ceiling.

He didn't want to be at the monastery.

But neither did he want to be anywhere else either. He thought of Grimmauld's again – its dust and the whispers of ghosts long gone. He thought of Hogwarts – bodies draped in white that he would never be able to unsee in the Great Hall.

He closed his eyes.

He hadn't seen Teddy in a very long time. Visiting the boy always made him feel like a failure – he didn't know how to act around the child, didn't know what to say, or how to put on a convincing smile. He felt guilty for visiting so rarely.

He turned over and stared at the small table by the wall. Faint light from the window illuminated the sheets of paper.

Maybe he should write to Ron and Hermione.

The three of them didn't hang out often (mainly because he usually lied and said he was busy), but they did Firecall him from time to time.

If they noticed he wasn't home, they might get worried. He could picture Hermione imagining the worst and Ron trying but failing to calm her down, nervously running a hand through his hair.

Harry sighed. He didn't have the energy to write them a letter.

He stared at the ceiling some more.

He sighed again.

At long last, he sat up and shuffled towards the little table.

Dear Ron and Hermione,

I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not home right now.

He frowned. What a dumb start to a letter. He crossed out the line and started again.

I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not home right now.
How have you been? I've been well.

"How have you been". He hated that question. Hated, hated, hated it with a fierce passion. It was one of the reasons he found it hard to socialise with people these days. What was he supposed to answer? "I'm great, thanks. My best mate is disappointed in me because I didn't join him at the Auror Academy and I still haven't told him when, or even if, I ever will. My other friends have all embarked on successful careers. My ex-girlfriend hates my guts, while the Prophet publishes weekly lists of potential partners for me. I spend most of my time chugging down Muggle liquor, lying in my dead godfather's bed to feel closer to him, and watching late-night sales TV."

He was disgusting.

Dear Ron and Hermione,

How have you been? I've been well.

But the disgust was nothing like the sinking, clawing feeling in the pit of his stomach that this was it. This was his life, and would continue to be his life forever. There was nothing to look forward to.

He clenched the pen in his hand.

In case you're wondering, I've gone on a trip.

Go on a trip? Who was he kidding? His friends knew he didn't go anywhere anymore.

I thought a change of scenery and some fresh air might be fun.

If he was going to lie, he might as well go all in.

It's pleasant here in Japan. I'm not sure how long I'll be abroad, but I'll try to send you a postcard from time to time.

He wouldn't. The thought alone made him feel tired.

I hope your training is going well, Ron, and that McG isn't saddling you with too much work, Hermione.

The sound of the gong vibrated through the monastery. He glanced at his watch. Nine o'clock, time for bed. He stared at the letter. Did he have to add anything else?

But he had nothing to say. Nothing to say to his two best friends in the world.

I'll go to bed now, I'm kind of jetlagged.

Love,
Harry

Folding the letter and writing their address on the envelope, Harry felt more alone than ever as he fell asleep.

***

"Harri-san."

Harry looked up from where he was scrubbing the tubs in the communal bathroom.

Ryotan stood in the doorway. "You have a visitor, they are waiting for you in the meditation hall, wishing to speak with you."

"Oh. Who is it?"

But Ryotan simply bowed and left. Harry dropped his cleaning supplies and made his way through the hallways. His footsteps echoed loudly with a clack-clack sound. When he got to the room where they practised zazen, he gasped.

"Professor Dumbledore!"

Hogwarts' old Headmaster turned to him and gave him a benevolent smile. "Harri-san. How good to see you again." His usually so colourful robes had been replaced by the drab dark ones the monks wore, and he sported the same white socks.

How odd, Harry thought – he'd never seen Dumbledore's feet. They were smaller than he'd thought they would be.

"Professor Snape says you've been learning well."

"You've talked to Snape?" Harry bristled. "You can tell him his idea was rubbish. It's much colder here than in London – I'm never going to be able to do magic this way."

"Really? I always found that a bit of snow does wonders for one's magic. Especially sitting down. Would you care to join me?"

Harry looked over his shoulder. Wasn't there some chore he could suggest they do instead?

But Dumbledore had already gotten up on one of the raised benches and sat cross-legged on a blanket. He patted the one next to him. "Come now, my boy. Zazen does wonders for one's magic."

Harry reluctantly sat down next to him.

They both faced the wall.

"Professor?"

"Yes, Harri-san?"

Harry didn't know where to start. "I've… I've spent a lot of time at home recently. It's like… Remember in first year, when I found the Mirror of Erised? Something in me just wanted to be with the Mirror. Like everything else around me – Ron, Hermione, Quidditch, the other Gryffindors, Hedwig – it all faded away. Maybe I even wanted it to fade away? Because what the Mirror showed me seemed better, somehow."

Dumbledore listened quietly.

Harry drew a circle with his thumb on his thigh, looking down at his crossed legs. "But it also wasn't better, because it wasn't real, you know? Every night I saw my parents, and I desperately wanted them to be there. But it was just me, in my pyjamas."

He didn't look at Dumbledore; the wizard had told him much the same back at Hogwarts that year.

Harry stared at the wall in front of him. "It's…. it's a bit like that, these days," he said dully. "If what the Mirror shows – if its reflection isn't real, and this is it… I just don't want this life, I think."

His throat clogged up. It was cold in the meditation hall; someone must have left the door open. A gust of wind blew in, making him shiver.

"It's like I don't want to do anything, Professor. Is that bad?" he turned his head to look at Dumbledore. The wizard's beard was coated in crystals of ice.

Dumbledore kept looking straight ahead. "There is no ambition to finish, Harri-san."

"But finish what?" Harry burst out. "There's nothing TO finish, because I'm not doing anything, I just feel lost!"

"Just sit, my boy. It takes practice."

Another icy wind tore through the room along with a flurry of snow. Harry got up to slide the door shut. Outside, it was dark and snowflakes fell from the moon.

When he clambered up on the dais again and turned back to Dumbledore, he gasped. Dumbledore's face was cracked like ice on a lake, and there were frozen droplets on his eyelashes.

"Professor!" Harry reached out to touch the wizard but pulled his hand back in shock. Dumbledore's shoulder was hard as stone. "Professor, wake up! You're not supposed to fall asleep during zazen, please, Professor!"

But the Headmaster's features were fading before his very eyes, glazing over with frost.

"Please! Professor!! Wake up!" Harry shook the wizard, his hands stinging from the cold. "Don't leave me, I don't know how to finish my chores, I don't know how long to keep sitting!"

Dumbledore simply stared at the wall, his eyes slowly closing.

"Until it is time to stop, Harri-san," he whispered.

His lips no longer moved.

Harry shot up, his chest rising and falling fast. He grappled around in the dark, frantically searching searching searching until his fingers found what they had been looking for.

His wand.

He slumped back against the mattress, feeling its comforting shape against his clammy spine.

Dumbledore.

Dumbledore wasn't at Anzan-ji. He wasn't here, it was just him here, alone.

Staring into the darkness, Harry found himself wishing he could cry, at least. But he hadn't cried since the night of the final Battle.

He fell asleep again with his wand next to his pillow, even though at Anzan-ji, it was just a dead bit of wood, silent and cold.

Chapter Text

The mornings, to his surprise, were not the hardest part at Anzan-ji.

The first time he got up at five to join the monks for sutra chanting, everything was still black outside and his eyes were crusted with sleep. His body was heavy as he dragged himself to the Buddha hall, his breath clouding as he shivered through the hallways.

One of the younger monks lit some candles by the altar as he snuck into the room and took a seat at the back. The flames threw flickering figures on the faces around him. All the monks held a small book in their hands; Harry was given one too, but he couldn't read the lines that ran away on the page, their shapes and stripes and dots.

He sat, waiting.

The Abbot came in, walked up to the altar, and bowed deeply before sitting down in front of a thick tome that lay open on a pulpit.

A gong sounded – once, twice, a metallic echo burrowing through the darkness of the dawn.

And then the Abbot raised his voice.

It was unlike anything Harry had ever heard; a sound seemed to come from deep within the monk's throat, reverberating through his body, the syllables all merging into one.

Soon after, the other monks joined in. Their voices mingled, a low droning drowning of sound, on and on and on. Sometimes they slowed into a murmuring mumble; then they would wade up again, the notes a swelling wave. The loop of the gong elongated their intonation, humming, humming, humming.

He was hypnotised by the sounds.

The chanting went on for half an hour.

When the timekeeper monk (Kaizen? Harry still struggled to recall their names) clanged the gong one last time, its echo tolled until all that was left was silence.

Everyone rose and shuffled out of the room, heading for breakfast.

Harry was one of the last to leave.

"How did you experience the sutra chanting, Harri-san?" Ryotan asked him.

"It's… I'm not…" he found himself searching for words, before changing track. "What is it you're singing?"

The monk nodded. "The learnings of Buddha."

"Right, but what do they say?"

"Is it important to grasp their meaning?" Ryotan looked at him.

Harry considered. "I mean, I guess I just wanted to know what the texts are about? It's kind of odd, listening to something I don't understand at all.

The monk's eyes were oddly perceptive. "Perhaps you understand more than you think you do, Harri-san."

Harry snorted. "I speak zero Japanese."

"Can you let the chant come to you without trying to grasp its meaning? Surrender the thinking of your discriminating mind; let go of your questions, your thoughts. In the moment, you are just sitting. You are chanting. You are channelling the learnings of your ancestors."

Harry sighed. Was he ever going to get any straight answers at this place?

After breakfast, when they had drunk up the last of their tea and spooned the last grains of rice gruel out of their bowls, Harry was told he would be helping out in the kitchens that day.

Tengen, the short, quiet monk who had greeted him in Japanese his first day, motioned at him to join him.

He spent the next hour preparing lunch, following Tengen's unspoken instructions. With gentle movements, the monk showed him how to slice aubergines just so and fry them in a large skillet. When Harry kept failing to pick up and turn the oily slices with his chopsticks, he looked up the cook giving him an amused smile.

"Sorry," he bit his lip, feeling like an idiot.

But Tengen just shook his head and showed him how to do it, holding the chopstick between his thumb and forefinger while skilfully manoeuvring it with his middle and ring finger.

Harry watched the monk work. His hands, which were surprisingly hairy, moved with precision and swiftness. He measured, sliced, diced, sautéed and stirred with ease, as if he had prepared hundreds of stews for his fellow monks, season after season.

Harry was reminded of Snape. On rare occasions, the Potions Master had demonstrated a step to them in class instead of stalking around and sneering over their shoulders. In those handful of moments, he had seen a true Master at work, he realised.

He wondered if Snape still brewed sometimes. Maybe he cooked his own meals, now that he no longer lived at Hogwarts?

Harry wrinkled his nose. The thought of Snape making himself spaghetti was bizarre.

When the gong reverberated through the temple complex again, signalling the end of the chores period, Tengen gave him a small bow and signalled that Harry was free to go and rest.

Back in his room, Harry sat down in front of the small table and grabbed another sheet of paper. He chewed on the end of his pen for a while, wondering why he felt the need to write to the man again.

Snape,

You were probably looking forward to seeing me back in London within days, too weak to stick it out here.

Well, think again. I just got up at the crack of dawn this morning for sutra chanting, and I'll be doing the same tomorrow and the day after.

I'm not surprised you would think being at a place like this could ever be beneficial.

H.

The bell sounded again. Harry sighed. More zazen.

After another painful session sitting around on his arse, desperately trying not to fidget or curse the cold, Ryotan walked up to him. "Harri-san, it is time to start your learnings. Each novice or visitor is taught about the teachings of master Dōgen, the founder of Sōtō Zen. It will help you understand your sessions with us, and frame them in your mind."

Harry very much doubted that, but he had to admit he was kind of curious whether anything the monk had to say would help him make sense of life at Anzan-ji.

They sat down on the floor in a small room in a corridor he'd never been in before. One side of the space was taken up by a floor-to-ceiling window that opened up onto one of the smaller courtyards. A single, weathered tree stood in the middle of it, covered in white quietness.

"Do you have any questions, Harri-san?"

Harry looked up, surprised. He had figured the monk would be giving him a lecture, and he would take notes or something; he hadn't expected to be allowed to set the topics himself. "Err… Maybe you can tell me a bit more about the sitting meditation? I'm not… It's not really working for me, right now."

"Hmm," the monk considered his question. "You say you are hoping zazen will work for you. As humans, we always tend to have some problem, some question. We seek solutions and answers. That is because we are stuck in samsara; we wander this world, trapped in the cycle of birth, death and rebirth. That cycle is suffering. Only once we learn to let go of it, can we attain nirvana, enlightenment."

"Okay…." He didn't really understand.

Ryotan smiled and continued. "You must learn to let go of your expectations to want something better. Let go of the feeling that something is lacking.

Harry picked at a loose thread on his robes. "Easier said than done, though."

"Of course," the monk agreed. "There are four simple things you can keep in mind as you sit in zazen: keep your posture straight, your eyes open but unfocussed, take deep breaths, and then observe your thoughts and let them pass. Do not follow them. Do not block them. Thoughts will come, and they will go. In between, there is emptiness."

"So I should try to empty my mind?"

The monk smiled again. "When you seek to attain nirvana, you are still seeking. Do not seek. Let go of your seeking. Then maybe, you will achieve the space between thoughts. Instead of contemplating emptiness, you will become emptiness."

Harry looked out the window. It had started snowing; gusts of wind blew snowflakes around, obscuring his sight.

"Do not do zazen, Harri-san. Be zazen."

Later that day, during one of the afternoon zazen sessions, Harry tried to do just as Ryotan had instructed. He clambered onto one of the folded blankets, straightened his back, and resolutely stared at the wall in front of him with wide-open eyes.

Don't think, he told himself. Don't think, keep all the thoughts out of your mind.

It was hard, though, because it was really cold. When did spring come to the mountains outside Kyōto? he wondered.

Hmm. Maybe that meant they would have to do more chores, though, if they had to clear the grounds and work in the gardens as well.

He wasn't bad at gardening. He'd basically kept the Dursleys' garden neat and trim all by himself – watering the flowerbeds, pruning the rose bushes, mowing the lawn, raking leaves.

But if he had to choose, maybe he'd prefer to help Tengen out in the kitchens. Did Tengen consider cooking his own form of mediation?

Meditation. Thoughts. Shit!

He straightened his shoulders, staring back at the wall. No thinking!

And like that, the days went by, one floating into the other.

He got up early to attend zazen and the morning's chanting, shovelled rice gruel into his mouth at breakfast, did whatever chores he was called upon to do, and tried his best during zazen.

But the harder he tried, the more annoyed and frustrated he felt.

It reminded him a lot of his Occlumency lessons with Snape – the same powerlessness he had felt then. He simply didn't know how to clear his mind. How was he supposed to let go of all thoughts – to "become emptiness" – when he wasn't allowed to think about emptiness?

Two weeks later, he and Ryotan met again in the same room. A weak sun was shining outside, and it had stopped snowing for the first time in days. They each had a mug of tea with them – not the grassy one he had gotten used to, but a nuttier one that reminded him vaguely of popcorn. They sure did like bizarre flavours in Japan.

"How is your zazen practice going, Harri-san?"

Harry slid his palm over the rough fabric of the tatami mats they were sitting on. "Okay, I guess." He chanced a quick glance at Ryotan, who simply gazed at him. He looked oddly like Luna in that moment. "It's just… I don't know how you do it," he admitted. "I just keep thinking of things in the past, and worrying about the future, and… I mean, should I count my breaths or something, like in yoga? Is that it?"

Sunlight filtered into the room, lighting up Ryotan's hands as the monk explained. "Try not to focus on a single object. Do not allow yourself to enter the world of thoughts: your mind should be everywhere and nowhere."

Harry gritted his teeth. This was still as confusing as everything else he'd been taught before. No wonder the monk was friends with Snape, he groused; they were both utterly unpedagogical.

"When the thought comes, do not grasp at it. Simply open the hand of thought; thoughts will perch like cranes, then fly away again."'

"What if I'm just not cut out for this kind of mind stuff?" Harry countered.

Ryotan smiled. "Zazen is something we do with our body, Harri-san. Not with our mind."

Harry sighed, and took another sip of his tea.

A few days later, during their early morning zazen before breakfast, he tried hard not to focus on the drip-dripping of snow melting from the eaves. It was maddeningly distracting.

Just as he sat thinking that it had been a complete waste of time to even get out of bed that morning, a loud THWACK made him jump.

He snapped his head around and felt his mouth drop open. Kaizen, the dour timekeeper who never really seemed to enjoy anything, was whacking one of the older monks on the shoulder with a stick!

He gaped. The timekeeper hit the older monk three more times in the exact same spot – firmly and precisely, just left of his neck – before resting the stick against one of the room's pillars again.

And then the two monks bowed at each other.

Harry spent the rest of the session wondering what kind of insane world he had entered. Was capital punishment part of the monks' routine? Were they going to start hitting him next?? He frowned. That didn't seem like the kind of thing yoga-teacher Snape would condone.

Later, when they were shuffling into the kitchen for breakfast, he brought it up with Ryotan.

"Ah, you mean the kyōsaku?" the monk asked, seemingly unperturbed.

"Is that what the stick is called?"

"Hai," Ryotan nodded. "It is very useful. When you are feeling sleepy or struggling to concentrate, you want a light sting to awaken you again. Most helpful."

"Wait," Harry interrupted him. "People ask to be hit?"

"Nn," the monk hummed. "By simply bowing the head with clasped hands."

They sat down and reached for their bowls and chopsticks. Harry felt bewildered.

Ryotan gave him a smile. "It is not a punishment," his eyes crinkled up with mirth. "It simply helps when you are in the monkey mind."

Later that night, Harry chuckled to himself as he floated around in one of the biggest tubs in the communal bathroom. "Monkey mind," he shook his head, wading through the water to rest on one of the submerged stone benches.

He had stuck to the same rhythm the other monks had of only bathing thoroughly every five days or so, but unlike the others, he waited to use the bathroom until very late at night, after everyone else had gone to bed.

It wasn't that he minded being naked around the monks – he had gone to boarding school, after all. He just… preferred not to be around a lot of people at the same time, since the war. During the day, the monks were usually quiet as they went about their business. When they were in the bathroom, however, he sometimes heard them laughing and talking with each other.

The thought of having to join him made him crawl under the blankets and squeeze his eyes shut.

Now, the only sound in the bathroom was the slow drop of water from the tap. The air was foggy with humidity, his hair curled wetly against his forehead and at his nape. It was warm, and drowsy. He was content to simply soak in the tub. Condensation slicked down along the tiles of the wall.

He looked at his body, the way the water distorted the shape of his legs, making his knees look even more knobbly than usual. His cock bobbed limply between his thighs.

It had been a very long time since he'd touched himself. He tried to remember. Nights on the sofa at Grimmauld's, the flashing light of the TV, empty beer cans on the floor. Mornings in bed, grey hours stretching out.

It had been a very long time since he'd wanted to touch himself.

He dragged a hand through the water, feeling the ripples, the shifting heat against his naked body. His cock remained flaccid.

It hadn't been that way, those months after… All the partying and drinking, the dancing and free rounds of Ogden's. First there had been Ginny, and afterwards, he'd woken up in more beds than he could remember.

And then there'd been that night at Hogwarts.

He leant his head back against the smooth ridge of the tub, staring up at the bathroom ceiling.

They'd all been at the Three Broomsticks until Rosmerta shooed them out at closing time. Then they'd spilled into the streets of the village, laughing and horsing around. Someone – Daphne Greengrass? – had managed to pilfer a bottle of Firewhiskey from the bar, and someone else suggested they find someplace to play drinking games.

Their whoops and yells had boistered through the night, the Scottish winter stars glittering overhead. Ernie McMillan had hoisted Alicia Spinnett's younger sister on his back and carried her through the streets, whinnying like a horse.

They'd ended up in the Shrieking Shack. Broken in through a boarded-up window, cast some drunken warming charms that made the place feel much too hot and found some mattresses to sit on.

"Spin the bottle!"

"Truth or dare!"

"Never have I ever!"

Harry had been drunk, so drunk, had slumped against the wall with a dumb grin on his face, watching as the bottle was passed around ("To peace! To the end of Lord Smellypants"), fingering the mattress and wondering absently if it had been Remus who'd torn the fabric.

"Never have I ever been fed meals through a cat flap!" he'd shouted.

Everyone had clapped and roared, hysterical with laughter.

"Never have I ever been named Witch Weekly's Most Desirable Bachelor," he took another swig.

Parvati was leaning in to him, close close, and her breath was too sweet and her breasts were pressing against his arm. Some of the others started singing a Weird Sisters song, and the Firewhiskey kept flowing.

"Never have I ever watched someone die," he muttered, and it wasn't Dumbledore he thought of as he drank and drank and drank.

Snape's blood probably still crusted the gaps between the floorboards in the next room.

Later, as they'd stumbled back to the castle through the snow, Susan Bones throwing up against a tree with some Ravenclaw fifth-year holding her hair back, he hadn't felt the cold, hadn't felt Parvati trying to hold his hand. Hadn't felt anything anymore, really, except for a blissful stupor.

Somehow, he'd ended up in an alcove on the ground floor by himself, waiting while the others went to raid the kitchens. "Th'pear," he had slurred drunkenly at them, "'t needs to be tickle, find th'pear."

Resting his cheek against the cold, smooth stone, he'd closed his eyes for a second.

Then there had been a hesitant cough. "Harry?"

He'd cranked his eyes open, trying to focus. "Mm?"

Terry Boot had stood in front of him, watching him with a look he couldn't quite place.

"'Sup," Harry had smiled.

Terry had smiled back at him. He had a rather lovely smile, really. Very bright, with incredibly white teeth.

Terry had stepped forward and placed his hands on Harry's shoulders, like a tender question mark around his body.

"Wha… wha're you doin'," Harry had mumbled, but Terry was standing so close, and he'd smelled so good – like the fire in the hearth in Gryffindor tower, woodsy and welcoming – and his lips were oddly glossy in the low light of the wall sconces.

And then Terry had kissed him.

Harry took a deep breath and dunked his head under water in the bathtub, staying down until his head began to spin and his vision blurred and he had to come gasping up for air. He ran a hand through his soaking hair.

A few days after that night at Hogwarts, he'd moved out of the castle and into Grimmauld Place.

He hadn't seen or spoken to Terry since.

Leaning over to grab the bar of soap, he slowly washed himself.

Snape had never liked Terry. When they'd had double Potions together with the Ravenclaws in fourth year, the man had once been so furious at Terry for adding too many swallowtail wings to his Confuddlement Draught, that he'd vanished not just the contents of Terry's cauldron but also those of all the other Ravenclaws, and hissed at them that they put their House to shame.

It hadn't been an unusual reaction for Snape, but Ron had rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath. "Someone needs to get laid and stop getting his knickers in a twist." Hermione had kicked Ron under the table and silenced him with a glare.

Harry rinsed the soap off with his washcloth.

Had Ron been right that day? Harry slowly squeezed the water out of the washcloth.

Did Snape ever get laid?

It was weird thinking about it. He swirled his hands through the water, until some of it sloshed over the rim of the tub onto the tiled floor.

Maybe Snape had a girlfriend.

That woman at the yoga studio, the one with the cropped hair and all the earrings – was she dating Snape?

Charlie's boyfriend Slavoj had worn an earring too on Christmas Eve. An onyx dragon's claw, dangling on a tiny ring. Harry remembered focusing on it during dinner.

The woman at the yoga studio had called Snape by his given name.

Severus.

Harry let the name roll off his tongue in the drip-dripping quiet of the bathroom, let the sound evaporate into the steam.

It suddenly felt like there was a fist around his lungs, squeezing his chest hard, hard. He didn't like it. It was like a cage.

With a splosh, he sunk his arm down into the water and jerked the plug out of the tub. Not waiting for it to empty, he clambered out and resolutely walked over to where he'd placed his towel, to dry his hair.

Had Snape gotten his letters? Ryotan said one of the other monks had posted them. Harry sniffed. Why did he even care? It's not like he wanted the man to respond.

He didn't want to hear from anyone.

***

Two days later, a letter arrived.

Tengen handed it to him during dinner. Harry looked at the envelope in surprise. There was a tear in one of the upper corners, next to the blue AIR MAIL sticker, and a swipe of dirt on the front side, but he would recognise the writing even in his sleep.

Harry!

Oh my god, we're SO glad you wrote – I was hysterical when I tried to Floo you last week and you were never home. Ron first suggested you might have gone out or something, but the house was so cold and there was mould on the dishes in the kitchen sink, so – anyways, that doesn't matter: you wrote!!

And you're on holiday?? In JAPAN??? That's amazing, Harry, we're so pleased for you!! I remember writing to you when we were in Australia, asking you if you wanted to come over. It's great that the idea of travelling caught your enthusiasm! It's like I always say: having hobbies and a purpose in life really is the way to happiness!

Ron says he can't believe you didn't tell him before you left, because he would have wanted to give you a shopping list for souvenirs – something about a place in Akihabara the twins once visited? He says he'll ask George and send you the address in Tokyo. (Boys…)

Anyways, we're so proud of you! Even though it was a bit terrifying not to know where you were. I hope you're seeing all the sights, trying lots of exotic dishes and having a fabulous time!!

Write to us again soon, we want to know all about your adventures!

Love,
Hermione

Ron had scribbled his own name under Hermione's, right above a postscript in her handwriting:

PS: when will you be back?

Harry stared at the letter in his hand, suddenly not very hungry anymore. He tried to eat some of the curry they were having that night (dark-brown gloop with bits of carrot in it), but it was thick and slimy on his tongue.

The next day when the bell sounded before dawn, calling the monks to the Buddha hall, he turned around underneath his duvet and did not get up.

All day long, he heard the sound of the bell. The shuffling of feet outside in the corridor, the clatter of chopsticks in the dining room, the whisper of sliding doors opening and closing again.

We want to know all about your adventures!

He did not get up.

I hope you're seeing all the sights.

He closed his eyes.

Having a purpose in life is the way to happiness!

He felt the prickle of tears behind his eyelids. Why did he feel like crying? He imagined the two of them together, reading his letter – his lies, he thought into his pillow. They'd be all excited, imagining him staying at some hotel, going out every day with a guidebook, visiting museums and funky restaurants.

The thought alone made it hard to breathe.

He had never, ever felt more alone than he had in that moment.

Exhausted even though he had not left his room all day, he fell into a fitful sleep. Melting snow ran through the drainpipe outside, a steady, rushing sound.

The bell woke him up the next morning, dark-grey light filtering in through the small window.

He couldn't get up. He couldn't. His limbs were heavy, dragging him down. His stomach was empty but there was nothing he wanted to eat. The monks would all go chanting, but there was no point in murmuring the sutras with them. No point in sitting, in clearing his mind, in doing chores.

He should be grateful for surviving the war, for having made it through alive against the odds.

But what had he done since? Nothing. Every one of his friends had gone on to study, to build a career, to pursue their dreams, make something of themselves. While he had just been cloistered in a damp old house, disappointing everyone.

The voice in his head sounded oddly like Snape's, sneering at him during Potions. "The great Mr Potter. Our very own Golden Boy. You're just a snivelling, pathetic child. Now that the Headmaster is no longer here to hold your hand, what have you got to show for yourself? You don't deserve your fame, Potter, you don't deserve anything."

He pressed his fingertips hard against his eyelids, willing himself not to cry.

Why was there nothing he wanted to do? Nothing he looked forward to? What was wrong with him?

Having a purpose in life is the way to happiness!

He couldn't even imagine what happiness would look like. All he had ever thought of was killing Voldemort, his one task in life. Now that it was over…

Eventually, he managed to convince himself to get out of bed, but only because he had eaten almost nothing in the past twenty-four hours and felt light-headed.

It was well past breakfast time when he snuck into the kitchen, but he knew his way around after having helped Tengen prepare meals several times. Maybe he'd be able to find some leftovers from the day before.

As he tiptoed around the kitchen counter, a sound made him jump and whirl around. But it was just Tengen, coming out of the storeroom. He smiled awkwardly at the cook, feeling guilty and conscious of the way he must look – his hair probably standing up on all ends, his robes crumpled.

But Tengen's eyes softened when he saw Harry. He sat down the sack of rice he'd been carrying and motioned for Harry to go sit down at one of the long tables.

Harry expected to receive some of the watery okayu they usually had for breakfast and reached for a bowl.

To his surprise, however, the monk sat down a small platter in front of him, with a glass of milk, an apple and some biscuits. Tengen nodded at him, and motioned at the food. The biscuits were shaped like teddy bears, their ears and feet brown and chocolatey.

"Thank you," Harry said. He was embarrassed by how hoarse his voice was, but he suddenly felt such gratitude towards the cook that he had to stop himself from crying.

Tengen folded his large hands and watched Harry eat. "Daijōbu desu ka?" he asked.

Harry looked up at him. "Dahjohboo?" He still hadn't picked up much Japanese – "hai" meant "yes", he had figured out, and the "-dō" the monks tacked onto certain words seemed to mean "room", like in "zendō", but that was about as far as he had come.

Tengen gave him an understanding smile and patted his hand, leaving him to eat.

Just as Harry was about to sneak back to his room, telling himself it was no use to attend zazen because he sucked at relaxing during the meditation, someone called out his name.

"Harri-san!" Ryotan walked up to him, his socked feet soft against the polished floorboards.

Harry's shoulders slumped; Ryotan must've come to scold him.

But the monk's announcement surprised him. "Today, you and I shall be going into Kyōto for sightseeing."

Harry gaped.

"Best put on your regular clothes, not your robes," the monk simply continued, "and a warm coat. Let us be meeting at the gate in quarter hour. We will be taking the bus."

Just like that, Harry found himself waiting with Ryotan at the bus stop, a short walk down the mountain from the monastery.

It wasn't as cold as when he had first arrived at the monastery: much of the snow had melted from the road, and the branches of the trees were no longer weighed down by snow. Still, he stamped his feet, the late February temperatures not yet in the double digits. Between the bare trees, he saw the mountains slope down to where he assumed the city lay. He hadn't been to Kyōto at all yet.

"Where are we going?" he asked. He still couldn't get over his surprise that they were leaving the monastery; he knew some of the monks sometimes did, to go grocery shopping or visit the hospital. But since his arrival, it had been like the world outside had ceased to exist.

"Mm," Ryotan considered, as he stood waiting patiently with his hands behind his back. "Ginkaku-ji, I think. And then perhaps Kiyomizudera. I think you will enjoy."

Harry nodded dumbly. He almost hadn't come along after all. It didn't matter much to him.

When the bus eventually arrived – a vintage-looking vehicle with burgundy stripes along its length – they boarded at the back and took a small paper ticket from the machine by the doors. "For calculating our fares," Ryotan explained.

They slid into their seats. Over the next hour, the bus rumbled its way down the winding mountain road. Snowy hills fell away into valleys. They passed streams swollen with meltwater, drove across quiet bridges. It was a serene kind of landscape; they met little other traffic.

Harry rested his cheek against the window, which fogged up with his breath.

After what felt like a long time, the suburbs of Kyōto came into view. It had been too dark when he'd arrived weeks ago to see much, so he wiped the glass with his sleeve to take a better look.

One of the first things he noticed was that the cars in Kyōto seemed very… toy-like, in a way. They were boxy, almost like the manufacturer had tried to squeeze them into a square to have them take up less space.

The houses were low and neatly kept, their architecture a peculiar blend of the houses he was used to, and Japanese features: sliding doors, small shrines in front gardens, wooden panelling.

The further they drove, the more shops and restaurants they passed, and what seemed to be a 7/11 convenience store on every other street corner – bright fluorescent light, vending machines filled with drinks, large A/C units.

"Tsugi wa, Ginkaku-ji-mae, Ginkaku-ji-mae." A polite female voice over the intercom announced the next stop.

Ryotan laid a hand on his forearm, pulling him out of his reverie. "Time to be getting off, Harri-san," he pressed a few coins into Harry's hand.

"Oh, I can pay for myself – " Harry responded, flustered, but Ryotan would have none of it.

"Is my treat," he simply smiled.

As the bus pulled up, Harry followed the monk's example, dropping both his ticket and the coins (all of which were surprisingly light, and one of which had a weird hole in the middle) into a box at the front of the bus, then got off.

"Now we will be seeing Ginkaku-ji, the Temple of the Silver Pavilion," Ryotan explained as they walked through a small gate, then along a path flanked by two tall hedges.

"Shōgun ruler Ashikaga Yoshimasa wanted to have a quiet retreat to spend his final days in. Here in the eastern hills, he thought, would be an auspicious place. This was in fifteenth century, what we call Muromachi period."

A park opened up in front of them, pretty as a postcard: stately pine trees, snow blanketing the grounds, and a picturesque lake. On the other shore, there was a small, unassuming wooden building with a two-tiered roof.

"Following Yoshimasa's death, the retreat was turned into a Rinzai Zen temple instead," Ryotan explained, pointing to the building. "It is one of the city's most beloved visitor spots now."

As they made their way along the lake, Harry wasn't sure why: the temple looked much like Anzan-ji to Harry. Others seemed to think differently, though: there were plenty of visitors despite the early hour, all tramping down the paths, taking pictures and shouting at their children not to stray too far. Harry cringed at the noise.

When they had a good view of the temple, Ryotan stopped to admire it.

"Why is it so famous?" Harry asked.

"Ah," the monk sighed. "Yoshimasa was daydreaming of covering the building in silver foil, to mirror Kyōto's other famous temple, Kinkaku-ji, which is covered in gold. But his plans never became to fruition. Instead, it was left with a more unfinished feel: wabi-sabi, the fleeting beauty of transience and imperfection."

Harry stared. The temple wasn't ugly by any means, but he could come up with a few other places that did a better job of symbolising fleeting beauty.

A group of tourists bustled by, following a tour leader who was carrying a large yellow umbrella and loudly explaining something.

Ryotan seemed to sense how he was feeling and moved along. When they'd almost looped the entire park, they passed an open space with a peculiar, large pile of sand shaped like a cone.

"What's this?" Harry asked.

"Ginkaku-ji's moon-viewing platform," Ryotan smiled. "It is essential element of the garden, a symbol of Mount Fuji."

Harry looked at the cone, briefly imagining what Professor Sinistra would have made of its proclaimed planet-gazing properties. His memories of the Astronomy Tower, however, were like a blow straight to the stomach.

He swallowed, clenching his teeth.

"Seberus-san liked Gingaku-ji better, you know."

"Hu?" Harry turned back to Ryotan.

The monk explained. "The simple, wooden temple instead of the golden one. He liked it better."

Harry stared at the monk, thinking of his former Potions Master in yoga pants and a loose T-shirt.

"Jaa, soro soro," Ryotan announced, nodding towards the exit. "There is much left to be seeing."

Outside the temple, hawkers and vendors had opened up their stalls for the day, selling souvenirs and sweets, with tourists arriving by the busload and flocking to the wares. It was busy and loud, and Harry started to get a headache.

"Do you wish to do some shopping?" Ryotan asked him.

"No, thank you, I'm good – maybe we can go somewhere more quiet?"

"A walk will be doing us good," Ryotan immediately seemed enthusiastic.

They turned away from the busy street and head left, crossing a bridge. Walking along the small brook, Ryotan continued. "This is Tetsugaku no michi, the Philosopher's Path. It will take us south through the traditional districts of the city, I think you will enjoy. Famous philosopher Nishida Kitarō used to take his meditative walks along this trail, observing the water."

The path didn't seem to be anything special either; the canal simply wound its way along the backs of houses, through residential areas. Here and there, garish pink blooms had fallen from the bushes and turned brown in the slushy snow.

"Winter-blooming camellias, magnificent, aren't they?" Ryotan enthused.

The monk seemed able to find pleasure in even the smallest of things. Harry himself was just relieved to be away from the crowds. "Mm."

When they'd been walking for half an hour or so, Ryotan led them from the canal and into a side street. The neighbourhood seemed much older than the suburbs they had driven through with the bus: many of the houses had slatted wooden gates, lanterns hanging from the eaves and low walls. Harry supposed it was a rather charming sight.

"Come," Ryotan ducked into a non-descript house, pushing aside the white banners that fluttered over the entrance. "Time for eating lunch!"

The place was tiny, with only a handful of tables. There were just two other guests, a pair of middle-aged women with shopping bags next to their chairs who gave the monk a polite bow when he entered. When a large, round-cheeked man came to take their order, Ryotan ordered for both of them.

Soon enough, the man came back with two bowls of rice, some of the cloudy, salty miso soup they sometimes had at dinner at the monastery, and two plates of what looked like nuggets in different shapes and sizes.

"Tempura," Ryotan explained as he deftly picked up one of the larger, lumpier pieces. "Deep-fried nasu, kinoko, kabocha and shiso – all vegetables. Seafood and meat can also be fried into tempura, but as monks we do not eat that."

Harry took a crunchy bite – and discovered that the food was heavenly. It had been a long time since he had felt truly hungry; he'd simply eaten the monks' diet to keep his belly filled.

Today, however, he devoured the battered, deep-fried tempura (aubergine, mushrooms, what tasted like pumpkin or sweet potato, and some kind of green leaf?). It was as if a part of him he hadn't known was hungry was suddenly fed for the first time in a long time.

"It's good," he said before gulping down some of the soup.

Ryotan's eyes wrinkled into a smile, but he didn't say anything. They simply sat and ate in silence. When they were both finished, they were served tea.

Harry held the mug in both hands, warming up his hands.

"Why did you become a monk?" Harry surprised himself. He hadn't really intended to say anything – there was nothing to say – but he felt like he had to make conversation, after the monk had gone out of his way to take him sightseeing.

Ryotan seemed unfazed by the sudden personal question. "I was a daigakusei at Sophia University in Tōkyo, studying medicine. I had worked hard for many, many years to get there, and my family was proud of me. I did my best, reading textbooks day and night. But it was not easy time. The programme was hard, and often I could not sleep. I thought perhaps taking supplementation courses would help. Or maybe drinking strong coffee. Perhaps moving out of the student dorm, so I could focus better."

The monk took a sip of his tea. "I chased and chased, Harri-san. But I did not find the solution. My happiness faltered. I was so tired, but I did not want to disappoint my family."

"What happened?" Harry asked. It was hard to imagine the monk had once been a student in the big city, training to be a doctor. These days, he seemed quietly timeless. Out of this world, in a way. It made the glimpse of his past life feel all the more intimate.

"I realised Zen cannot be found outside oneself – it is only within."

Harry cocked his head.

The monk laughed softly. "I was ill for several months. I had to give up. Coming to Anzan-ji saved me. I became a monk."

"Your family didn't give you a hard time?"

Ryotan traced his index finger around his mouth, in a gesture strongly reminiscent of Snape. "They were not happy. But I found the way for me."

Harry stared at the monk. He seemed so content, sitting in the small restaurant, finishing his tea. Harry had a feeling Ryotan was not the kind of person who would dramatise his stories; saying his family had "not been happy" was probably a massive understatement. So how could the monk be so at ease today?

When they got up, Harry felt oddly bitter – he knew he should feel inspired by Ryotan's story, should see it as an example of someone finding their purpose. Why couldn't he figure out how to do the same? He pulled his jacket on angrily.

Outside, Ryotan turned to him. "Harri-san. I think, perhaps, we make a change in our plans. I know I promised Kiyomizudera, but I think this new destination will be to your liking."

"Okay," Harry said, not caring that much one way or another anymore. He tried to push away the guilt at the thought that Hermione and Ron would probably have killed to be in his place right now, sightseeing in Japan.

They got on another bus.

It was only early afternoon by then, but clouds blocked the sky and sleet blurred the streets. Harry watched the city crawl by: the odd blend of old and modern architecture, the odd pedestrian underneath a transparent plastic umbrella, unlit lanterns hanging from eaves, signs in Japanese he couldn't read, except for one that said "PACHINKO" and another that said "KARAOKE", more vending machines, a thick tangle of electric wires stretching haphazardly from lamp post to lamp post.

When they got off ("Hakabutsukatusan" or something, the bus stop sounded like), it was full-on raining. Harry shivered, but managed to fight his instinct to reach for his wand to cast a drying charm. It was no use anyway.

They hurried in through a worn, wooden gate and found themselves in a big, gravel parking lot outside yet another temple. It was much less impressive than the not-silver temple they had visited that morning.

"Where are we?" Harry asked.

Ryotan didn't answer but led them to an entrance at the side of the building. There didn't seem to be any other visitors; the entry hall was deserted. They took off their shoes, just like at the monastery, and shuffled through a short corridor, entering a dimly lit space.

When his eyes adjusted to the light, Harry's mouth fell open.

They were in a massive hall that seemed to be nearly 400 feet long, and stretching all the way in front of him were rows and rows and rows of life-sized, golden statues. Their hands were clasped in prayer, and their heads framed by delicate golden circlets.

"What is this place?" Harry whispered.

"Sanjūsangen-dō," Ryotan spoke quietly. "The temple home of Kannon, goddess of compassion. Come."

They made their way down the hall, the statues seemingly following them with their eyes. In the middle of the hall sat a much larger statue, with vases of flowers and incense in front. Ryotan bowed and lit two sticks of incense, giving one to Harry.

Harry copied the monk as he placed the incense at the statue's feet, then observed the monk put his palms together and bow his head for a moment.

When he was done, Ryotan turned to Harry again. "Kannon is what we Buddhists call a bodhisattva: she reached enlightenment, but elected to stay here on this earth to help us with our learnings. There are one thousand and one images of her here. Look at the statues. Do you see their arms?"

Harry took a closer look and saw that the statues each had dozens of arms; many seemed to carry small objects, or held their fingers in certain ways.

"Kannon has eleven heads to witness our suffering, but a thousand arms to help us bearing it."

Harry kept looking. Something about the bodhisattvas – the way they stood immobile in the dimness, softly gleaming like silent witnesses, made him go quiet.

"Take your time," Ryotan said.

Harry wandered off, peering at face after face after face. Right at the front, there were two dozen more fearsome statues – perhaps protecting the bodhisattvas. But it was the faces of the gold statues that drew him in. He noticed they seemed to have slightly different expressions. One pouted, another smiled serenely, while yet another seemed almost wistful.

He stood for a long time, looking at them.

"You know, Harri-san, they say that if you look closely at the statues, you will find one among them that is resembling the person you long to meet." Ryotan spoke next to him.

Staring into the face of the statue closest to him – the curve of its eyebrows, the line of the nose, the downward glance that seemed almost alive – Harry suddenly felt his throat clog up.

It was too much like the Mirror of Erised. There had been so many people he wanted to see back then, and in the years since, so many more would have joined them.

Colin, Lavender, Tonks.

Fred.

Remus.

Harry bent over, supporting himself with his hands on his knees. He willed the tears away, willed his eyes to remain dry. He breathed in deeply and tried to focus on the rain rapping on the roof tiles overhead – the only sound in the huge hall.

"Daijōbu desu ka, Harri-san?"

Harry swallowed. "Why did you take me here?" he asked, trying to keep the quiver in his voice under control.

Ryotan gave him a sad smile. "Because there is more than one way, Harri-san."

"I don't understand."

"We do not always have to understand," the monk answered, his voice quiet but gentle. "Perhaps… perhaps it would help you to know that this was Seberus-san's favourite temple in Kyōto."

Harry looked up in surprise. "Sn- Severus was here?"

"Several times," Ryotan said with a smile, without elaborating.

After another few minutes, they quietly made their way out of the hall. Harry was deep in thought as he pulled his shoes back on.

Just before they exited, he saw that the temple sold small souvenirs and postcards in one corner.

"Hang on," he said, "I'll just be a sec."

He quickly pulled a few coins from his pocket to purchase a postcard and a stamp. Borrowing a pen from the young man behind the till, he stared at the back of the card. Then he scribbled down a single sentence.

He hurried back to Ryotan. "Do they have a post box here?"

"I can ask for you," Ryotan nodded. The monk walked back to the souvenir stand, exchanged a few words with the man and then handed over the postcard, after scribbling something on it.

Outside, the rain had turned to a dreary drizzle.

The streets were busier, people making their way home in the evening rush hour. They waited for the bus in silence.

It was only much later, as the bus wound up the narrow mountain roads again, that Harry realised he'd never even mentioned to Ryotan whom he wanted to send the postcard to.

Chapter Text

Severus never spent time in the wizarding world anymore. When he did, it was on the quietest days, at times when respectable witches and wizards were otherwise occupied.

Early weekday mornings, for example, were ideal times to stock up on fresh or volatile potions ingredients he was unable to get by owl.

Even better when it was drizzling, like today.

He made his way through the Leaky Cauldron as inconspicuously as possible, slinking through the shadows without meeting anyone's eye. It was a good thing he had so many years of experience of stalking unseen through the corridors of a Scottish castle. Still, he felt ill at ease: where once he used to billow and swirl his robes for dramatic effect, now wearing them made him feel like the jester in a play. He was much more accustomed to wearing yoga pants and T-shirts these days.

But it seemed fortune favoured him for once: there were few patrons in the pub, none of whom seemed to notice him. And although old Tom did not actively greet him, the barman did not hinder him from making his way to the courtyard either.

He tapped his wand against the bricks. They wriggled and shifted and opened up onto Diagon Alley stretching out in front of him. It was a miserable sight that morning: the cobblestones were slick with rain, the storefronts huddled together, wet and cold, and what few shoppers were about hurried to get their business done, hiding under umbrellas.

It was perfect.

Severus made his way towards Knockturn Alley as swiftly as possible – ignoring Slug and Jiggers, the narrow-minded bastards.

The bell tinkled when he stepped into Mulpepper's Apothecary. More superficial shoppers might turn up their noses at the shop's darkness and dust, the musty smell that clung to the shelves and the way the shopkeeper seemed to take pleasure in displaying the unpalatable – Bladderwail leeches, blood-sucking Plague Rats and Lethifold larvae.

But Severus had spent years of his life living in a dungeon. And while Mulpepper charged outrageous prices, his selection far outrivalled that of the prim and proper competition on Diagon.

"Good morning Sir, how may I help you?" The apothecary's voice slid over Severus's back like slime.

He turned around.

Mulpepper wore expensive dark-grey robes that hung off his rake-thin frame. His white hair was stained yellow, his mouth lined with wrinkles – the signs of a lifelong nicotine habit.

"Three Diricawl feathers, a sachet of dried Himalayan mandrake and a pint of fire slug spittle," Severus skipped the small talk, not wanting to spend any more time in the shop than he had to. He was hoping to be back home in time to start the potion before lunch.

The apothecary took him in with narrowed eyes. Severus did not miss the way the man's gaze sniffed out his left arm. "I am afraid we are out of the fire slug spittle. Terrible shortage these days, terrible."

Severus concentrated on his breathing. He knew the man was lying. But Mulpepper's was his only option. "A pint of Mooncalf milk instead then," he spoke through gritted teeth. "Fresh, mind you."

"Very well, Sir, very well," Mulpepper licked his lips and turned to fetch the ingredients from the storeroom.

Severus waited impatiently in the shop. He was used to the aura of Dark magic, but these days, the creep of it across his skin made him feel queasy.

"Here you are, Sir," Mulpepper re-emerged. "That will be five Galleons, eighteen Sickles and five Knuts." His eyes glittered in the dark.

Severus clenched his teeth. Almost an entire week's salary. But he fished his pouch out of his robes, placed the money on the counter and pocketed the ingredients.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Sir," the apothecary smiled. His teeth were brown and stained.

Severus left the shop with a curt nod, breathing in deeply once he was outside again. Normally, he would not have indulged in such an outrageous purchase, but he needed the ingredients for the salve he was developing for Minerva. Pulmonary damage was never easy to treat; the fact that she had been hit by multiple Stunners at the same time meant the salve had to be extra potent.

He cast a quick glance at his watch. Only half nine. With a bit of luck, Diagon would still be relatively deserted. Drawing his robes around him to shield himself from the rain, he began to make his way back.

Right on the corner of Knockturn and Diagon, however, something in the window display at Shyverwretch's caught his attention.

"RARE MANUSCRIPT: Baelywettle's research on Runespoor bites. First edition," a sign next to a book read.

The book's pages were stained and its spine was fraying, but Severus did not care: Baelywettle, one of the foremost experts on antivenins, had written an entire publication on Runespoor snakes?? He owned most of the man's works, which were exceedingly well-researched and innovative, but had never even heard of this one.

Perhaps it contained information that would help him improve the potions he made for his neck?

Just as he was considering whether or not to step inside, a shout pierced the morning quiet.

"Oi! What are you doin', showin' your face 'ere?"

He whirled around, hand immediately in his pocket around his wand.

A man with a red-veined face stumbled towards him from the Centaur's Arms. Drunk before mid-day, his mind registered. Seemingly alone, however.

He quickly scanned his surroundings. The only Apparition point was at the far end of Knockturn, and he did not want to risk being cornered by the man in the narrow alley. He would have to make his way back to the Leaky instead. Gritting his teeth, he began to walk as swiftly as he could.

Unfortunately, the man followed him. "I was talkin' to you, Death Eater! You've got no business 'ere!" His voice was slurred but his anger was unmistakable.

Severus forced himself to focus on his destination, just a couple hundred yards away.

"Runnin' away, are 'ye?!"

A sudden sting at his heel almost made him stumble. Glancing angrily over his shoulder, he saw the man stand broad-legged in the middle of the street, wand pointing straight at him. The fool had started throwing hexes. Other shoppers stopped and stared, a small crowd gathering. Another but J g whiplash snapped against his shins. He cursed under his breath.

Casting a longing glance at the Leaky, he knew it was no use. He did not draw his wand yet; given who the crowd knew he was, it would only anger them. But he did turn to face his attacker.

"I was simply purchasing a few potions ingredients, that is all."

"'s Not what it looked like to me." The man swayed slightly. A smirk spread across his face as he noticed he had an audience. "You were lookin' at Shyverwretch's, that poison business!" The crowd gasped. "Everyone knows that place is no good. So what were you plannin' on purchasin' there, ey, Death Eater?!"

Angry muttering followed the comment. People were looking at him with disgust and fear in their eyes.

"Dumbledore's murderer," he heard someone whisper, and "Should've been sent straight to Azkaban if you ask me". It was just loud enough for him to hear.

"Shameful scum!" the drunk yelled, his eyes glassy with drink.

Severus thought furiously. He knew that if he hexed the man in return, all hell would break loose. But he could not turn his back either. Just then, an authoritative voice sounded from behind him.

"Alright, what's this then?" Two red-robed Aurors roughly pushed their way past him, towards the crowd. "Come on, everybody, move on, nothing to see here. On you go."

"'e's a murderer and a criminal is what 'e is, that Snape!" the drunk yelled, waving his wand at him.

"I never said he wasn't," one of the Aurors spoke shushingly, as if to a child, "but we wouldn't want to get ourselves into trouble now, would we?" She laid her hand on the drunken man's wand arm and gently pushed it down.

Severus recognised the Auror as one of his former students. The girl had been in Ravenclaw, a witch of average skill. He swallowed, humiliation burning in his throat. Let it go, let it go, he tried to remind himself, breathing loudly through his nose.

When the man was distracted by the Aurors for a second, Severus immediately turned on his heels and strode away.

Just as he was about the enter the Leaky Cauldron, however, a young woman took a step towards him near Quality Quidditch Supplies. She folded her arms protectively over the baby that was strapped to her stomach in a carrier.

"You should be ashamed to show your face here, Severus Snape," she hissed. Her face was blazing with anger.

"I was just about to leave. If you wouldn't mind stepping aside, Madam," he spoke carefully.

"Because of you, my son will never get to attend Hogwarts under Albus Dumbledore."

Albus.

The name still pierced his lungs every time he heard it, sharp and precise in the hurt it caused.

In the split second he hesitated to respond, the woman narrowed her eyes and spat him in the face. Then she turned around and walked away.

Severus stared blankly at her retreating form. When the wet, cold glob began to slide down his cheek, he raised his arm and wiped it off with his sleeve. He kept his face carefully neutral; several shoppers were staring at him.

Making his way into the pub, he strode straight past the large Floo that flickered greenly.

It was only once he was outside on Charing Cross Road, safe in Muggle London, that he took a deep breath. A large double-decker rumbled past, the roar of its engine almost drowning out his thoughts.

It does not matter, he tried to tell himself. You do not need their approval. It is all in the past.

His legs moved by themselves, taking him away, far away. He passed theatres with garish signs advertising plays, passed banks and upmarket burger places and shops selling posh soaps, sidestepped groups of pedestrians and people pushing prams, absentmindedly wondering whether they thought his robes were odd, whether they could smell the dried spit on his skin and the disgust that had caused it.

A waft of hot, stale air blast up from one of the entrances to the Leicester Square Underground, whipping his black hair around his face. He wanted to be swallowed, swallowed, swallowed into its depths, into the darkest tunnels, where only rats scurried, feeding on trash, blind to the light of day.

But he kept walking – past the National Portrait Gallery, the chaos of Trafalgar Square, hordes of tourists, flocks of pigeons flapping up and settling down on Nelson's Column, shitting on the statue at the top, covering Nelson's likeness with their faeces.

His skin was too tight around his cheekbones, like it had shrunk.

He crossed the Mall without looking, without caring when a car honked loudly at him. Early morning sun slanted on the ponds in St James' Park, kissed the daffodils and turned them into a sea so bright he had to turn his head away.

The wool of his robes made his shoulders itch, made his skin crawl.

It was only once he had found a quiet back street in Westminster – away from the crowds and the office workers – that he paused. He leaned against a wall, the bricks rough at his back.

Looking up, he caught sight of himself in a dirty window across the street that had not been washed in years.

His hair hung limply by the sides of his face and his mouth was drawn. He tried to straighten up. If he squinted, he could pretend the scars on his neck were just streaks of grime on the glass.

Taking a long, hard look at himself, he closed his eyes and Apparated back home to Croydon with a crack.

***

Brewing helped. It had always helped. Even on days after a meeting with the Dark Lord, when he was left too weak to actually hold a ladle, he could always just run through the ingredients in his mind, ponder substitutions and minute changes he to tweak a potion.

Sprinkling the Himalayan Mandrake he'd purchased that morning into the bowl on the countertop, he reached for his mortar to ground up the brown algae.

Mixing the result in with the other ingredients, he felt a familiar sense of satisfaction. Minerva's salve was coming along nicely: pale green and smooth, its consistency was almost perfect.

Placing the bowl in his tiny fridge, he checked his watch. He would leave the salve to chill for three hours, then check whether it required more Fluxweed.

Making his way over to what was supposed to pass for a living room, he sagged down on his old two-seater from Hogwarts and leaned his head back. If he tipped it far enough, he could observe the feet of the pedestrians rushing past, but the stretch still made his scar burn, so he sat back up again.

He picked up Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance from the crate he used as a side table, and opened the book to continue reading. His eyes fell on the bookmark.

Potter's postcard.

He had immediately recognised the place, surprised that the boy had picked a picture of the outside of Sanjūsangen-dō rather than the thousand glittering statues within. It was odd, knowing that Potter was in Kyōto, that he had visited the very place Severus himself had been to.

On the back of the postcard, there was just a single sentence in Potter's so easily recognisable, scrawling handwriting:

I'm still here.

In spite of himself, Severus had huffed out a laugh when he'd first read it.

The boy had written him two letters before – angry, ranting and petulant missives that had made Severus run a tired hand across his face. It was no surprise that the brat had been less than pleased to discover magic did not work at Anzan-ji.

When he himself had travelled to the monastery, Sandra had warned him in advance. He supposed he would have been dismayed too if his wand had suddenly stopped working. It gave him a certain perverse sense of pleasure, picturing Potter's reaction.

But the postcard… The postcard was different. Severus fingered its edge.

The boy had been at Anzan-ji for more than a month already. Severus had to admit he was impressed. He hadn't thought Potter would actually go – let alone stay. Had he misjudged the boy's capacities?

He frowned. Everything he had seen of Potter in class suggested the boy remained much the same: impulsive, unable to control his emotions, prone to fits of moodiness. Unwilling to follow instructions.

But then he thought of the hollowness in the boy's eyes the first time he'd attended one of his Yin classes. The green had been dulled to a colour that was no longer a colour, a flat nothingness.

He had wondered many times, after shouting at the boy in the locker room and shoving Anzan-ji's address into his hands, whether doing so had been a mistake. The boy had been so angry, his knuckles white as he'd crumpled the piece of paper. Or perhaps anger wasn't the right word, perhaps despair was more apt.

It was a feeling he himself knew well.

"I'm still here."

Turning the postcard over in his hands, one of the corners of his mouth drew up involuntarily. After all these years, Potter still managed to surprise him.

Feeling uncharacteristically generous, he bent forward, rummaging in a box underneath the sofa and retrieving pen and paper from it. He would not tell the boy what effect the postcard had had on him, but he would reward him with a brief reply.

Slipping the letter into an envelope when he was done, he dropped it into his yoga bag by the door to post it when he headed out, and then went to prepare his notes for his next class.

***

Severus nodded at the new receptionist when he arrived at the studio the next day. What was the young man's name again? Kevin? Calvin? He always forgot.

"Evening, Simon, how are you today?" the receptionist gave him a blindingly white smile. A string of Buddhist prayer beads looped around his wrist.

Severus nodded curtly with lips pressed together. The man had not yet learnt that "Simon Prince" was not interested in small talk.

"Your six o'clock is almost fully booked," the receptionist went on undeterred, I placed a few extra bolsters at the back. "And - oh hang on, let me just get this." he quickly picked up the phone, which had started ringing. "Namasté, this is Bamboo Yoga, how may I help you?"

Severus openly rolled his eyes at the "namasté". Yoga may have become a big part of his life, but he still did not condone all the ridiculous bells and whistles many people in the community insisted on adding to what was, basically, elaborate physical stretching. No one would ever find him hanging wind chimes in his home or purchasing preposterous healing crystals.

Sandra looked up and smiled at him when he entered the teacher's room. "Hiya grandpa grump, having a nice day, are we?"

He glared at her. "I could have, if Emily had deigned to hire a less enthusiastically New Age receptionist."

"Casper? I think he's nice."

He shot her an annoyed look. "If by nice you mean insufferable. 'Namasté, this is Bamboo Yoga,'" he mimicked. "Spare me."

"I thought you liked the name Bamboo Yoga?"

"No," he said emphatically, "I merely said it was the studio with the least idiotic name south of the river, and that is why I elected to work here."

"Oh?" she approached him with a glitter in her eyes and threw her arms around him, pretending to swoon. "And here I was thinking you picked it because you wanted to work with me."

"Unhand me this instant, woman!"

She gave him a disgustingly wet kiss on the cheek. "Only because you ask so nicely, 'Simon'."

He wiped off his cheek and raised one eyebrow at her in warning. "Keep this up and I will not be joining you later."

But she just waved her hand at him as she walked out, on her way to teach. "Yes, you will. Me and Ro are your only friends here in London, and you know it. See you later! And yes, I would love for you to buy the first round."

He shook his head as the door snicked shut behind her. What had he done to deserve such a menace for a friend and colleague?

The receptionist had been right, it turned out: every single mat in his class that night was taken. He was pleased; once spring came around, with its longer evenings and more abundant sunshine, people did not always decide to spend those evenings doing yoga. Fully booked classes were better for all of them at the studio, because London's yoga sector was highly competitive.

"Good evening," he commenced the class. "We will begin by lying on our back on the mat. Find a comfortable position, perhaps with a blanket to support your head, and take a moment to settle down."

He watched as bodies of all shapes and sizes lay quietly in the room, the only sound the gentle inhale and exhale of their breathing. He felt some of the tension disappear from his own shoulders.

"As you begin to unwind, shift your awareness to the back of the head, the base of the skull. Try to trace the sensations in your body back to this particular point."

He walked quietly through the room.

"Now try to close the gap between your inhale and your exhale, like a loop. One continuous breath: inhale like a wave, exhale like a wave."

One of his students shifted and repositioned the blanket under her head. He waited for her to settle again – observing his annoyance at her and then letting it go.

"Good. Just follow that rhythm."

Later, when he and Sandra made their way to the Duke of Norfolk down the road, he listened to her chat about her own class that evening. It was not yet fully dark; the fading light set the facades of Brixton on fire, all orange and gold.

Entering the pub, they were greeted by the usual foggy warmth, drunk shouting and smell of greasy pub food that accompanied afterwork drinks in the city.

"Yoohoo!" a voice boomed from somewhere in the corner as they ordered drinks at the bar, an arm waving over the crowd.

He cringed as he followed Sandra to the table.

No matter how many years he and Rolanda Hooch had been colleagues (and recently even socialising companions), he would never get used to her boisterous ways.

"Hello, pumpkin." The flying instructor kissed Sandra on the lips before giving Severus a slap on the back.

Severus always suspected Sandra had roped Rolanda into her project of getting him more used to casual touch. "Hooch," he nodded. "I hope you are well?"

"All fine and dandy, Severus. How was class?"

"It was so busy tonight!" Sandra interrupted before he could even answer the question." Remember that snooty publicist who once told me in front of the entire class that I was teaching them downwards dog all wrong? Well – "

Severus settled back and listened to the pair talk, a quiet observer.

He had never been close to Hooch at Hogwarts, convinced they probably had very little in common. But to his surprise, she had been one of the first to forgive him after his dark months as Headmaster.

When Sandra had first dragged him along for a drink, back when she was still teaching him the basics of yoga, he had forced himself to offer Hooch an excruciating apology. But Hooch had simply interrupted him, tossing her head the way she often did.

"Water under the bridge, Snape. I figure we all did what we had to do during the war. And if what Potter's been telling the entire school is correct, it sounds like you did a lot more good than bad."

He had shifted in his chair, uncomfortable at the fact that Potter had been singing his praises all over Scotland. "Still, I would understand it if you could not find it your heart to forgive – "

But she had simply raised her pint of Fuller's London Pride. "All that is left to do for us, is to become best pals. I'll start by calling you Severus." Her weather-worn face had betrayed her amusement.

He'd narrowed his eyes at her, but knew she would not take no for an answer. "That would be acceptable. But I will not call you Rolanda or, Merlin forbid, 'Ro'."

Ever since, the three of them regularly went out for drinks together.

"Severus, you'll be pleased to hear Slytherin's in the lead for the Quidditch Cup this year," Rolanda turned to him.

He smirked. "No need to sound so surprised. I assume young McArevey is proving as excellent a Chaser as you feared he would be?"

They got into a heated discussion on the strengths and weaknesses of the Houses' respective teams, until Sandra had had enough of them. "No more magical sports now, you two, at least try to include this poor Muggle in your conversations. Severus," she gave his shoulder a pinch, "get me another Strongbow, will you?"

With a put-upon sigh, he made his way to the bar.

As he waited for his order, a man came to stand next to him, waiting for his turn. Severus observed him from the corner of his eye.

He seemed to be in his mid-thirties, with a lean, fit physique and an elegant jawline. He was wearing a chequered shirt and horn-rimmed glasses. His hair was exasperatingly messy.

Severus allowed himself to inch sideways imperceptibly and breathe in the man's scent. He smelled rather enticingly.

"Here you go, two ales and a cider," the bartender interrupted, spilling some over the rim as he shoved the three glasses at Severus.

As Severus turned to leave, the handsome man addressed him. He smiled and nodded at his forearm, where Severus's long-sleeved T-shirt had ridden up. "That's a cool tattoo. How far up does it go?"

Ice formed in Severus's stomach. He immediately dragged his sleeve down and removed his arm from the bar. "A regrettable mistake made many years ago. Now if you'll excuse me." He turned around without meeting the man's eyes, his gaze firmly on the three pints in his hand. The glass was cold against his fingers. He forced himself to focus on the condensation, wet against his fingers.

Back at the table, Hooch had her arm around Sandra, who was looking sultrily into her girlfriend's eyes.

Severus's teeth suddenly ached with chagrin. "Do you have to look so incredibly lesbian together?" he bit out.

While Sandra just laughed, Hooch seemed to pick up on the unintended bitterness behind his comment. She gave him a searching look.

"Don't go slagging off on us, Severus. Pot and kettle and all that."

He took his seat without meeting her eyes.

Hooch pressed her knee against his below the table, a gesture of reconciliation he knew he did not deserve.

"Any hot dates recently?"

He took a deep swig from his ale, wondering what to say. Sandra saved him. "Ro, you know Severus doesn't like to shout his private life from the rooftops."

"I was just asking, wasn't I? There's never any hot gossip at the school, I've got to get my kicks somewhere."

As they began to argue about his love life, or lack thereof, he downed half of his glass in sudden thirst and coughed. "Excuse me, I need a trip to the men's room," he mumbled.

Shoving his way through the crowd, he was relieved to enter the bathroom, the door shutting out the hubbub and chaos. His ears buzzed. The room smelled of Cif and stale smoke.

He unzipped at a urinal, staring straight ahead at the filthy tiles.

It wasn't that he was lonely. He had learnt early on in life not to have any expectations in terms of companionship or affection.

He had his brewing, his yoga, a quiet life with no expectations, no masters to obey. As long as he did his nightly stretches and kept applying regular treatments to his neck, the pain was manageable.

That was more than he had ever believed he would have during his darkest years as a double agent, when the Dark Lord used him as toy to Crucio and there was no one on the side of the Light who didn't regard him with suspicion or outright hatred.

It was just that –

Right at that moment, however, he caught a sudden silver flickering of light in the mirror next to him.

He whipped around with the reflexes of a spy, his wand in his hand before he had even fully tucked himself back in again.

"No," he whispered, his eyes widening. He immediately cast a Muggle-repelling charm and a quick locking spell at the door before turning back around.

The hummingbird Patronus flitted in mid-air in front of him, its wings a rapid heartbeat of worry. It was so tiny it was like a Snitch, a flutter of swiftness in space.

Since it had been desperate enough to seek him out in a Muggle location, he knew whatever it had to say would not be good.

"Severus," Poppy Pomfrey's voice rushed into the bathroom. "Please come to Hogwarts as soon as you can – it's Minerva."

He wasted no time. Banging open the doors to the three bathroom stalls to check there was no one who would hear the crack of Apparition, he turned on his heels and was gone before the last stall door had fallen shut again.

Chapter Text

Harry straightened his back and set his rake aside. A light breeze ruffled his hair. He closed his eyes. Somewhere in the forest, a woodpecker drilled with rhythmic precision.

He'd been working in the monastery's gardens for a few weeks now, since the snow had melted and winter had gentled into spring. He'd first noticed the change in his small cell: in the mornings, his window was no longer frosted with ice, and he fell asleep without bitterly wishing he could cast a warming charm on his feet.

Today, they were raking up leaves around the temple's main gate. His chores partner – a spotty, rather shy young monk – only spoke Japanese, so they worked together in silence. He didn't mind: he'd worked long, lonely hours in the Dursleys' garden so many summers.

The monastery's grounds were very different from Aunt Petunia's immaculate flowerbeds, though. After winter's heavy snowfall, they looked a bit worse for wear – branches had broken off here and there, browning leaves lay decaying everywhere, and nature was still awakening from its slumber.

But spring flowers had started popping up with the change in temperature, and there was a whisper of the palest green on the shrubs. Velvet moss crawled over the stepping stones in the gardens in a way that would have made his aunt reach for the herbicide.

Harry rather liked the messiness of the place.

When Ryotan had first told him the monks did chores, he had assumed the regime would be relentless, like detention with Filch. But Anzan-ji had surprised him.

In the two months since he had arrived, he had mopped the floors, straightened out the blankets in the meditation hall, helped Tengen in the kitchen, cleaned the loos, swept the corridors, dusted the incense holders in the Buddha hall, and started doing gardening work.

Just like Ryotan had instructed him to do, he simply worked until he heard the clanging of the temple bell, then stopped. Whatever he got done, was what he got done. No more, no less.

Oddly enough, he found that the absence of pressure and goals made him try harder.

He snorted, thinking of Filch. The caretaker would never have agreed to implementing the monks' method at Hogwarts.

Just as he started raking again, the sound of the gong reverberated across the grounds. He sighed. Time for their third zazen session of the day.

In spite of his lessons with Ryotan, he still struggled to understand the point of the meditation. It was boring, tedious and, frankly, a waste of time. Earlier that day, he'd almost fallen asleep during session.

For a brief, mad moment, he had considered raising his hand to ask Kaizen to beat him with the stick, but then he'd shaken himself out of his insanity. He was not letting some sadistic monk whack him with a plank, thank you very much.

Later, when the session was over, he retreated to his bedroom. A few days before, he'd received a letter from Snape in response to his last one.

Potter,

I have noticed your letters to my person increasing in frequency in recent weeks, in spite of my lack of responsiveness. Whether this is the result of some deep-seated trauma or simply stubborn Gryffindor foolishness, I would not know, but I can assure you that I am not the enthusiastic penpal you might picture me to be.

As your last missive was less plaintive than usual, I will allow myself to hope you have acquired a modicum of acquiescence for your situation and are seeking to make the best of it.

I have urgent business at Hogwarts these days, so if you do not hear from me again, know that it is because I am occupied elsewhere, and unable to engage in epistolary frivolity.

In the meantime, I hope your stay at Anzan-ji will benefit you in some way, however small.

S.S.

Harry bit his lower lip, rereading the letter. Snape's words were so vague – he insisted he didn't want to be contacted, but between the lines it did sound like he wondered how Harry was fairing. And what was this "business at Hogwarts"? Maybe Hermione would know, she might have seen Snape at the school.

A stab of guilt went through him. He still hadn't responded to her and Ron's letter from two months ago. It was just that every time he considered doing so, he just sat and stared at the paper.

Like the blankness of the page demanded he sound upbeat and cheerful and tell his friends he was on exciting adventures. There was no room in that blankness to confess he felt lost.

Harry returned Snape's letter to his trunk, on top of the only other one he'd gotten from the man, in response to the I'm-still-here postcard he had sent from Sanjūsangen-dō.

Snape's answer had been just as brief:

Keep it that way, for the love of Merlin.

When he had received it, he'd actually laughed out loud, to his own surprise. Without thinking much about it, he had penned a long response and posted it the next day.

Somehow, Snape's sneering (which sounded so clearly in his head when he looked at the one-sentence letter) was easier to respond to than his best friends.

When the bell sounded again, Harry made his way to the room where Ryotan had been teaching him about Zen for a few weeks now.

The monk was already there. Behind him in the courtyard, the young leaves on the tree looked almost silver in the mid-morning light.

Ryotan poured him a cup of tea on the low table that sat between them. "How was your gardening?"

Harry blew on his drink; he had almost forgotten the taste of English Breakfast already. "It was alright."

"Springtime makes life much easier, I always think."

Harry was quiet for a while. He stared at the whitewashed walls of the room. "I still find zazen hard, though."

Ryotan cocked his head, waiting for him to continue.

"It's… I just keep thinking about stuff that happened to me, a few years ago. I want to push it all away, but I can't – like the silence in the zendō pushes into me, and… pushes everything to the forefront of my mind?"

"Mm. It is true. Zazen can bring us face to face with our demons."

"So why do we do it then?" Harry burst out. "Why do you do it? It doesn't make me feel calm, only sleepy, and if it's not making me sleepy, it gives me anxiety. I just don't understand!"

"When asked the question of why we should practice, Zen master Dōgen's answer was always the same: just practice," the monk began.

Harry snorted bitterly. "Yeah. Thanks. That doesn't help at all, though."

Ryotan smiled. "Harri-san."

Harry looked the other way, out the window. Who tended to the little courtyard? He'd never been inside of it, and as far as he could see, there was no gate into it either.

"We all have the same problem with zazen – you are not alone. There is constant rumination, mental chatter. Try to empty yourself of it all, let the mind become still. Just-sitting mediation is a way to let go of yourself, of focusing on the here and now."

Harry ground his teeth. He kept asking the same question, and getting useless answers. HOW was he supposed to do what the monk told him to do?

"Studying Buddhism is studying yourself. Studying yourself, is forgetting yourself."

"I don't know what that means," he said, not caring if he sounded like a whining child.

Ryotan cradled his cup in his hands, the steam slowly circling in front of his dark robes.

"You are so afraid of not knowing, Harri-san. How about simply saying 'I do not know'? If you can be comfortable sitting in the not-knowing, then you can be present in your life with curiosity and wonder."

For some reason, there was a lump in his throat. He swallowed. "I don't like not knowing things."

"What are you afraid of?"

Harry tried to decide how much he could tell the monk without saying anything about magic, the war or his past. "I went through… some bad stuff. A few years ago. Knowing things – planning ahead and strategising and preparing – was how I survived." He glanced up at Ryotan, but the monk just sat there, listening, his face gentle.

"Afterwards, it was hard to let go of the constant plotting. I struggled to relax, so I… I turned to some unhealthy coping mechanisms." He blushed, not wanting to mention the meaningless sex and drunken nights to the monk.

"That sounds like a natural reaction."

"Yeah." He fiddled with his robes, the lump in his throat dry like a Bezoar. "It's just… I don't know if it was – if it is – making me happy?" He looked up, desperately wanting the monk to give him an answer to the question he didn't know how to phrase.

Ryotan gave him a gentle look. His eyes were always so large and trusting. "It sounds like you are wondering who you are. What kind of life makes sense for you."

Harry bit his lip. "People back home have plenty of opinions on that."

The monk shook his head. "It is not what society or the people in your life tell you to do. You will not find the answer in the sky, or anywhere else – only inside of you. What kind of life do you want, Harri-san? What is your truth?"

Harry looked down at his knees, thinking.

No one had ever really asked him that, he realised. People probably thought they did, but there were always suggestions between the lines. Why don't you join the Auror corps? Kingsley had asked him a few weeks after the Final Battle. Would you like to get a flat together? Ginny had suggested. There's always a place for you here at Hogwarts, it might do you good, McGonagall had offered.

Even the yoga pass Hermione had bought him had been a nudge, not a question.

He snorted. Come to think of it, Snape was the only person who had never told him what to do – except for sending him to Anzan-ji.

"What are you thinking about?" Ryotan asked.

"Just about Sn-, I mean, Seberus-san. I knew him before, back when the bad things happened. He used to mock me sometimes, for doing what other people wanted me to do. But so many people depended on me! I didn't have a choice." He took another sip of tea. "That's why we never got along that well, me and him. It was like he was always unhappy with me. Hated me, actually."

Ryotan smiled at him. "Perhaps, it is time to stop asking yourself what Seberus-san would want."

"Yeah. Maybe."

Later, during their next zazen session, Harry found himself thinking about Snape. Staring at the wall, he realised Snape hadn't made fun of him for coming to the yoga studio, but hadn't told him to stay away either. It was like it didn't matter to him either way what Harry did.

Why had Snape become a yoga teacher?

It was obvious that he had spent time at Anzan-ji. Had he felt lost himself too?

Harry jumped slightly when Kaizen hit one of the monks behind him with the stick, but kept looking at the wall, thinking.

Snape hadn't been given many choices in life either.

The man's memories had made Harry realise that even pledging his life and soul to Voldemort had not been as much of a choice for Snape as he had always thought it had been.

What would he have done, he thought, if Ron and Hermione had turned their backs on him as friends, and someone had promised him he would get the family he had never had if he joined a powerful wizard?

All of Snape's choices for the rest of his life had been determined by that one half-choice.

Harry's chest suddenly felt tight as he thought about it. Was it so odd, then, that the man did something completely unexpected now, that he had become a yoga teacher?

Just then, thinking about Snape at the studio – his dark hair swept back in a loose bun, the limber way he moved, as if his body had finally become his – Harry couldn't name the feeling that welled up in him.

The next morning, when the gong tore him from his sleep, he blinked. Clambering up from his mattress, he tried to remember his dream. Flashes and colours came back to him, but they were blurred and shapeless.

When he arrived at the zendō, the last trails of the dream slipped out of his grasp. It was only when he sat down and straightened his back for the morning's first zazen session, that he realised he couldn't recall when he had last had a nightmare.

And like that, the days and weeks slipped by at Anzan-ji, in an endless, meandering stream of meditation, chanting, meals and chores.

It was dull. There was no question about it.

But something about the monotony, the strict schedule, also made life at the temple easier. Not happier, per se, because he still felt numb inside many mornings.

But nobody asked him what he wanted to do with his life. He just did what the rules of the monastery dictated, and that was it.

In a way, the monotony was good. It left him no room for thinking.

One morning, when he was raking the gravel in front of the Buddha hall, Kaizen shuffled up to him, his back stooped. He pointed at several big plastic bags of leaves along the side of the hall. "Can you help?"

Harry gaped at the timekeeper monk. "Wait – you speak English? How come you never said?"

Kaizen gave him a spare smile. He held up his thumb and index finger. "Little bit."

Harry kept staring at the monk, before realising he was being rude. "Right, of course, I'll help – what do you need?"

"Bags to forest." Kaizen explained that he wanted them to spread out the dead leaves in the forest.

As Harry began to pour the contents of one of the bags out between the trees, there was a pleasant chirping. He peered up and caught a flash of something small and warm orange among the trees.

Kaizen caught him looking. "Jōbitaki," he said.

"Johbeetakee?"

The monk nodded up at the bird.

Harry didn't know any birds beyond the most common ones and the few they had covered in Care of Magical Creatures, like Phoenixes and Jobberknolls. He was always impressed when people knew a lot about wildlife.

Kaizen shielded his eyes with his hand and peered up. Together, they listened to the sounds of the forest – the groaning of the trees, the wind among the branches and more birdsong than Harry had realised at first.

"Mejiro," Kaizen pointed.

Harry followed his fingertip: two small, pale green birds chased each other through the brushwood, hopping around before settling down and starting to groom each other.

Sneaking a look at the monk, Harry felt like he caught a rare glimpse of something: the man always seemed so miserable, so intent on measuring out the day in strict rigidities of hours. Now, the smile on his face transformed his features, smoothing out his wrinkles and making him seem much younger.

When Kaizen caught him looking, he ran a hand over his bald head, as if searching for the words. "Birds, they my favourite," he shared shyly.

Harry suddenly wished he could tell the monk about Hedwig, and the way he still missed her. Kaizen would probably understand, but there was no way he would be able to explain owning an owl. So he just nodded, swallowing. "Yeah. They are."

In silence, they carried on with the bags, spreading them out in the forest and getting rid of the empty ones. When Harry moved to pick up his rake again, Kaizen spoke: "Wait." He beckoned for Harry to follow.

They walked around the back of the Buddha hall and through a small passageway Harry had never noticed before, between two hedges. When they came to a wall, Kaizen led him to a plain, wooden door and fished a rusty key out of his robes. His hand shook slightly as he turned the key in the lock.

When the door opened, Harry gasped.

They were in the little courtyard outside the room where Ryotan taught him about Zen – and in the days since their last lesson, the tree had burst into blossom! Whirling around, he saw his own smile reflected in the monk's eyes.

The monk motioned for them to sit down on the building's veranda.

They rested for a while, basking in the sunshine and admiring the tree. Its blossoms were whispers of white, with a shy kiss of rose right at the centre. A single one drifted to the ground on the breeze.

Harry had a feeling they were not supposed to lounge around, because chores time was for chores, but since Kaizen's job at the monastery was to make them all stick to the schedule, he figured it would be okay.

Peering up at the sky, he narrowed his eyes against the sun. A shadow circled overhead in slow loops – a bird of prey? The bird's wingtips were fingers, outstretched against the blue.

"Tonbi," Kaizen said.

"Tonbi," Harry repeated, trying to learn.

The bird let out a long note, followed by a shrill, high tremble, which felt strangely morose on such a beautiful day. It sent shivers down Harry's spine and made him wonder if it was a bad omen.

But Kaizen did not seem to mind the bird, simply fishing his timekeeping blocks out of his robes. He clacked them together, then nodded at Harry. "Time."

Harry followed him out of the courtyard, casting a final glance at the tree standing on its own, blooming for no one to see.

He looked away. It was time for their next zazen session.

***

When Tengen and the kitchen-helper novices served dinner that night, Harry couldn't believe his luck: instead of the bland, drab stews they had been served for weeks so far, with an occasional side of cold pickles and the ever-present white rice, today they were getting the dish he'd enjoyed so much in Kyōto with Ryotan.

Ryotan gave him a wink from across the table. "Tempura," he reminded Harry in a low voice.

The next few minutes, Harry happily crunched on the fried goodness, content to wolf his meal down in silence, in line with the monastery's guidelines. They should get tempura more often. Maybe next time he worked in the kitchen, he could mention the dish and see if Tengen could teach him how to prepare it.

When the kettles were passed around, he dutifully cleaned his bowls with the weird vegetable and the hot water, proficient enough with chopsticks now not to spill any water over the rim.

The abbot rose from his seat, followed by the others. "Otsugaresama desu," he spoke with his head bowed, signalling the end of the meal. Everyone else repeated the phrase and then trooped out of the room.

"Harri-san," Ryotan drew his attention. "Before I forget, there was a letter for you."

Harry looked up in surprise. Something from Snape?

Seeing the handwriting on the envelope, however, he recognised it as Ron's. Odd – his best friend wasn't much of a letter-writer, usually it was Hermione who enjoyed penning long missives.

He cast a quick look out the latticed windows; the evening sky was a watercolour of indigo, too good a night to go to bed already. Quickly grabbing his jacket from his room, he made his way outside and sat on the veranda that looped around the dormitory building. It wasn't that cold for the time of year.

Swaying his legs back and forth, he looked at the envelope and bit his lip. Would Ron bring up the Auror programme again? But no, he was probably just wondering how Japan was, and maybe asking for some weird souvenirs.

Tearing the envelope open, Harry unfolded the letter.

Harry mate,
I'm afraid I've got some bad news.

Harry's mind blanked.

His eyes slid over the letters – cramped and halting, as if Ron had struggled to hold on to his quill. He couldn't make out the words.

It was very sudden.

All the sentences ran into one. His mouth was dry.

Hermione's devastated, she's been inconsolable.

There was a buzzing in his ears.

The team at St Mungo's did all they could.

Birdsong. Could he hear birdsong?

Madam Pomfrey even contacted Snape for help.

Snape. Snape was a yoga teacher.

I wrote to you as soon as I could.

Snape could save anyone. He could. He could, right?

I don't know how long this will take to arrive in Japan, but it will probably be too late for you to attend the funeral.

He blinked. Blinked again. The paper in his hand wouldn't stay still. Why was it trembling?

Embolical pneumonia. Incurable.

She's dead, Harry.

Harry stared straight ahead at the monastery grounds. At the large gate and the trees and the mossy paths.

Professor McGonagall is dead

There was no birdsong. There wasn't a single sound.

He got up. His legs carried him. Carried him through the gate ("to rid you of your foolishness", Ryotan had said), towards the road.

He started to walk.

Somehow, he made it to the bus stop, and a bus came. He got on.
His eyes didn't see the mountains around him as night fell, didn't see the small waterfalls and the brooks that meandered through the valleys.

He didn't see the lights of Kyōto as they drove through the suburbs, the cars and the bicycles and the buses and the houses.

He pulled some coins out of his pocket, stumbled off the bus.

The pavement. He was standing on the pavement.

Why was there no birdsong?

The signs were too bright and too flashing, he couldn't read them. Was he not wearing his glasses? Everything was blurry.

"WHISKEY - BEER - SAKE".

Neon-green. A sign. Whiskey, beer, sake. A bar.

He pushed the door open, his hands moving of their own accord.

A waitress came over and bowed, she bowed and smiled and talked to him, gave him a menu, bowed again, smiled, bowed, asked him to follow, showed him to a table. Sake? she asked him. He cocked his head. What? She smiled and bowed, left and returned, set a small bottle in front of him with an even smaller cup, poured something from the bottle into the cup – colourless and odourless and incurable.

He drank and the taste was like the first time he had gone down on Ginny. He hadn't gone down on girls often after that.

He refilled his cup. Drank. Refilled his cup again. Drank.

At some point, the waitress brought him a small bowl of green beans with flakes of salt sprinkled on them. He stared at them, not eating.

He refilled his cup. The waitress brought him another bottle.

There was no time, there was only the table in front of him, and the heat of the bar with too many people. There was no sound, only the buzzing in his ears.

He tried to eat one of the beans but it got stuck in his throat, they did all they could, but it was stuck in his throat.

At some point, some young people in office wear got up and grabbed a microphone, started singing along with words on a TV screen. They laughed and their cheeks were red, their hair was messy and one of them swayed on her feet. They seemed to be having fun.

He watched and refilled his cup. The outlines of the singing people were blurred.

Outside, the streets were dark, the streetlights pooling on the pavement.

He wasn't wearing his watch. What time was it? Too late to attend the funeral. He rested his head on the table for a while, just for a while. The birdsong would wake him up. He didn't know what time it was.

When a hand shook him gently, he blinked and looked up. The waitress. She said something in Japanese. He looked around. There was almost no one else left in the bar. She helped him to the door. He bowed and stumbled, almost fell.

"Hai," he said. "Hai, hai. Tonbi." It was the only Japanese he knew.

He walked. I don't know how long this will take to arrive in Japan. It started to rain. It was very sudden. Cold drops fell on the pavement, on his shoes, on his glasses.

He came to a park.

He walked and closed his eyes and just breathed in the scent of the wet earth, heard the patter of the rain on the canopy of trees overhead, and there was a small lake and a bridge across it and the park was probably beautiful, he did all he could he did all he could he did all he could but there was a sob in his throat, a lungs-ripping sob that wanted to come out, and when it did, it tore him apart.

It wasn't birdsong. It was the sound of grief.

On his knees in the rain, in a park in Japan, he cried. For Minerva McGonagall, who had led him to the Sorting Hat and whose stern look had been replaced by a smile of pure pride when he had emerged a Gryffindor from under it. Who had been furious with worry when he and Ron and Hermione had fought the troll in the bathrooms. Who had gotten him his Nimbus 2000, the first broom he ever owned. Who had seemed even more nervous than him when he had had to face the Hungarian Horntail during the Triwizard Tournament. Who had stood up for him against Umbridge. Who had been one of the bravest, most intelligent, most capable witches he had ever known.

Who had torn his heart apart with her inhuman cry when Hagrid had carried him in front of Voldemort, dead to all the world.

She was his Head of House, and now he would never see her again.

Sobs wracked his frame; the grief was like a wave, because his pain over Professor McGonagall tore open all the old wounds he had believed closed.

He cried for Sirius, one of the only Marauders left, the godfather he had had for such a brief moment only, the home ripped away from him.

He cried for Dumbledore, who had taught him so much, who simply longed for warm woollen socks, who may not always have been fair but who had protected the fate of their world with his life.

And he cried for Snape. For the years he had spent hating the man, their complete inability to reach out to each other across the divide, the loneliness they had both faced alone.

It took a long, long time for his tears to subside.

Wiping the snot off his face with the sleeve of his robes, he looked up and saw he was standing under a cherry tree. The blossoms looked sorry, washed out and inconsolable. A few were pasted to the soles of his shoes.

He swallowed. It might be too late for his Head of House's funeral, but he was going back. It was enough; he'd been here long enough, and it hadn't helped him, and he felt worse than ever. Snape had tried to help him, but he had been wrong.

Realising how cold he was, Harry shivered his way out of the park and flagged down a taxi.

"Anzan-ji," he said. He no longer needed anyone to write the address for him.

When he was back at the monastery, he made his way to the dormitory building. Just as he was about to slid the door open, he paused. There was a sound.

The sky was still dark, it was not even dawn. And the sound was the sound of voices, the singing of the monks, their daily sutras.

He was missing sutra chanting.

But it didn't matter anymore, because he was leaving. He was going back to England.

He packed up his trunk, stuffed his few belongings into it – his wand at the very top. Stroking a finger along the wood, he didn't feel the excitement he'd thought he would feel when he'd get his magic back.

But it had been a long night, and he was tired.

Just as he closed the lock with a quiet snick, someone spoke his name in the corridor. "Harri-san."

Harry looked up.

It was the abbot. He and the head monk had never really spoken, the man simply nodding at him the first time they'd passed each other in the corridors.

The abbot had always exuded a certain impenetrability; like his age and wisdom were a cloak, his power a fortress. He was probably not unkind, but Harry had never known how to address the man, afraid he wouldn't know what to say if the abbot would ask him why he was at the monastery.

Because someone I used to hate told me to come here and I was angry and didn't know what else to do didn't seem like much of an answer.

"How are you?" the monk spoke, and the question was more than a question.

Harry looked down at himself; his still-damp robes, the socks he hadn't changed for a few days. He ran a hand through his hair, still unsteady on his feet – whether from the alcohol or the grief, he didn't know. His eyes were probably red.

"I – " he croaked, his voice breaking. Everything blurred again.

But the abbot held him in his gaze. It was as if the monk's eyes carried him.

"I think I should go home. Someone – someone I cared a great deal for died."

"I am terribly sorry to hear that. Such partings are never easy."

Harry bit his lip and gave a small nod.

The abbot looked at him for a few moments, before speaking in a low voice. "It is easy to long for permanence, Harri-san. All humans do. And this longing is the reason we suffer. But the founder of Sōto Zen, master Dōgen, believed that life and death are one and the same thing. We do not have to choose between them. Living and dying together constitute life."

Harry blinked away the tears. "I just… I don't know what to do. So many people have died. How can I keep living when they're no longer here?"

The abbot smiled, perhaps for the first time since Harry had arrived at the monastery.

"Follow the path you are walking, Harri-san. Only you can walk that path." The light of the moon through the window reflected off the abbot's bald head. "Walk in the not-knowing, and you will never get lost."

With an imperceptible bow, the abbot turned around and walked away, the only sound of his departure the whisper of his robes.

Harry sat down heavily next to his trunk, staring in front of him.

His chest rose and fell with each breath as he thought about the people in his life – the ones he had lost, but also the ones he still had.

He thought of his two best friends in the world, of the warmth and messiness of the Burrow, of the turrets of Hogwarts on a spring day, of Quidditch and flying and the wind in his hair.

He thought of Snape.

It had been two and a half months since the man had hissed at him to go to Anzan-ji. You will not come back until you have stayed there for at least three months, he'd warned.

What difference would two more weeks make? None.

He should just go.

Just then, he heard something outside. He cocked his head and listened closely.

Walking over to the window in the corridor, he saw the first light of dawn creep across the forested hillside, dark greens shifting to morning. Looking out over the grounds he had become so familiar with over the past weeks, he held his breath and waited.

And there it was: the call of a single bird, welcoming a new day.

He exhaled, and stood at the window for a long time.

Then he decided. He knew what he would do.

He just had to ask Ryotan for one final favour.

Chapter Text

"How are you?"

Severus rolled his eyes. "I am fine, Sandra, simply trying to get ready for class." He set his bag down in the teacher's lounge, opening his locker.

"It's just, I haven't heard from you since the funeral, and I'm starting to get worried – Ro's still devastated, she says the entire school's in mourning. So I just thought – "

"I told you I am fine," he snapped, with more sting to it than he'd meant.

His colleague frowned. "Severus," she narrowed her eyes. She wore metallic blue eyeshadow that day. "We've been through this."

He turned to change into his yoga pants, but could feel her glare on his back.

"Yoga is not only about being in tune with your own body, it is also about getting in touch with your inner self and your feelings," she insisted.

He sighed and turned back to face her. She raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him.

Why was it that his life was populated with bossy women who were hell-bent on turning him into an emotional Gryffindor sap?

A stab of grief went through him at the thought that one of them would never boss him around again.

He deflated and sat down on the bench. "I am… alright. It is not as if I am unaccustomed to losing people."

She sat down next to him and laid a hand on his arm. It was warm, but not unpleasantly so. Her skin looked so tanned against his own pallor. "Doesn't make it any less difficult when it happens."

He nodded in silence. After a few brief moments, in which she blessedly did not pry any more, he cleared his throat. "My Yin class is about to start, I should – "

"Of course. Just, you know where to find me, if you need me. And Ro. I mean it; she's always there for you too." Her eyes were so earnest, and he wondered what bizarre twist of fate had brought him into her life.

"Thank you," he simply inclined his head, and then left the lounge.

Entering the classroom, with its familiar scent of eucalyptus and palo santo, he stopped in his tracks – there was no mistaking the thrum of magic. His eyes scanned the dim room and settled on a person lying on a mat at the back of the class.

Could it really?

His mind raced, calculating – almost four months. He was not sure whether he was impressed or unsurprised.

When the shape on the mat shifted, he felt his jaw drop: gone was Potter's characteristic bird's nest mop of hair. Instead, it was replaced by sleek, shaven baldness. He snorted. Of course. Count on Potter to go all in, even as a novice monk.

Since the boy did not lift his head or acknowledge him, Severus told himself to stop staring, walked to the front of the room and unfolded his own mat.

"We will begin with a gentle massage of the pressure point at the back of the skull. Take a block and set it upright at the head of your mat. Then come to lie on your back, feet on the mat and knees up, and rest the base of your neck on the ledge of the block."

Interestingly, Potter calmly complied with his instructions.

Unable to curb his curiosity, he reached out with his magic. To his surprise, the boy's magic seemed changed: there was a hint of something warm and vast in it now, like the waves of the ocean.

"On your next inhale, gently turn your head over to the right. You should feel a slight pressure on the ligaments and muscles at the back of your head. Pause, exhale, then turn your head back to centre."

It truly was odd to see the boy without his characteristic haircut, but, in a way, it suited him. It made him seem older, less his slightly lost, scruffy former self.

"Now repeat the same movement, only turning your head to the left this time. Keep gently rolling your head from side to side while you relax the space between your shoulders."

He walked through the room, observing his students. "Let the chin be soft, let the belly breathe freely – try less, as it were."

When he neared the back of the class, he was prepared for Potter to shift or react to his presence, but the boy just kept doing as told. His eyes remained closed, and he appeared oddly at ease.

Severus stared.

Potter's body seemed to have filled out from all the chores at Anzan-ji. The boy – man now, he supposed – moved with deliberate, quiet purpose. The calmness he exuded was fascinating.

Severus shook himself and moved on. "Now, with a last exhale, release your head back into centre and then remove the block from under your head. Allow yourself to stay on your back for a few seconds, feeling the blood course through your veins. Do you notice any changes in your body?"

All too soon, the class was over. Severus fully expected Potter to perhaps come up to him. He refused to admit that he was perhaps loitering a bit at the front of the room, giving the young man the chance to talk to him, if he wished.

But when he looked up again, Potter had left and the room was empty. Severus mentally berated himself for the pang of disappointment he felt.

It must be because he was still unsettled by Minerva's bequest.

Her funeral had taken place a month and a half before, on the lawns of the castle. It had been a glorious spring day, and there had been entirely too many people for his liking. All of wizarding Britain seemed to be in attendance: the School Board, a sizeable delegation from the Ministry headed by Shacklebolt himself, dozens of alumni (including two thirds of the Golden Trio), many of the most prominent wizarding families, all of the school's staff – even the ghosts and house elves.

When he had seen the crowd, he had had to physically restrain himself from bolting. Thankfully, he had been wise enough to apply a strong Concealing charm to his person, allowing him to observe the proceedings from the back. Unobserved and undisturbed by those who would not want him there.

But it was Minerva's funeral, and he would pay his respects.

He owed the Scot more than he could ever thank her for. The thought that he had not been able to save her, had only been able to alleviate her suffering in those last days, pained him.

After an hour of pompous speeches and sickening sentimentality, he had watched her coffin being Leviosa'ed into the tomb – a similar affair to Albus's, only dark grey and less ostentatious.

He did not wait for the tomb to be sealed, turning around and striding away instead.

He could not watch her disappear from them forever.

Somehow, his feet carried him not to the winged-boar gates, but to the upper floors of the castle, where the familiar gargoyle awaited him.

"Memento vivere," he spoke – Minerva had changed the password in her final days – and ascended the moving staircase.

The house elves had tidied the office since her passing, neatly setting aside the countless potion bottles, now empty, that he had brought to her, and clearing up after the visitors who had come to pay their respects. The place looked much as it always had: some of Albus's fanciful magical instruments still whirling, a tartan throw over the wingback seat, and the portraits snoozing on the walls.

There was an empty frame in the corner, waiting for Minerva to make her appearance.

Walking over to the window, he watched the black-clad crowd mill about on the lawns by the lake. Snowy mountaintops glistened in the distance. He frowned. The delightful weather was so at odds with the occasion. Minerva would have enjoyed the irony of it.

He let his hand trail over her desk, picking up a single cat hair. It caught the light, tabby brown. He blew it away.

For old times' sake, he sat down in the Headmistress' chair. To his surprise, one of the lower drawers of the desk opened with a creak. He frowned and drew it all the way out after casting several quick spells to check for hexes or Dark Magic.

The only thing in the drawer was a single, sealed letter. The McGonagall family crest was stamped into the wax.

"To Severus" the envelope read.

Curious, he opened the missive. What would his former colleague have written to him that she could not have told him in words during her last days?

Reading, his eyes widened in surprise.

I hereby bequeath my property in Portree, Skye to Severus Tobias Snape, to be used or disposed of as he in his sole discretion deems appropriate.

(Signed,)
Minerva McGonagall

He sat back with the letter in his hand, stunned.

She was giving him her home?

He prided himself on being a man who never allowed himself to be overwhelmed by emotions, but the sheer generosity of her act made him swallow.

"You will always have a home at Hogwarts, Severus," she had told him in St Mungo's when he had insisted he could not accept her invitation to come revalidate at the school.

Now, apparently, she was giving him a permanent home – perhaps because she was aware that, after her death, it was not guaranteed that her successor, or the School Board, would extend as generous a welcome to him she had once had.

A home. An actual home. He stared at her handwriting.

He would no longer have to live in the grubby subterranean flat in London, paying an exorbitant slice of his yoga teacher's salary in rent.

The last time he had been at Minerva's was just months before on New Year's Eve. While the cottage was right on the waterfront in the harbour, Skye was remote enough that it would grant him a relatively quiet life. He did not know whether there was a basement or not, but as he would be living there by himself, he could probably convert any of the rooms into a full-scale potions laboratory. And the isle's flora was sure to provide him with a plethora of interesting ingredients that only grew north-west of the Highland Boundary Fault. Teaching yoga would probably not be possible on Skye, but he could just Apparate to the studio in London.

It was too much, though. Wasn't it?

He needed a drink. Rummaging in the other drawers, he soon found a bottle of well-aged, Glenmorangie single malt.

Pouring himself a dram, he raised his glass to the empty portrait frame. "Here's to Quidditch bets, discussions of obscure magical theorems, and… friendship."

And if there was a lump in his throat as he downed the whiskey, no one would ever know.

In the days after Potter's return to the studio, Severus had little time to dwell on the Hero's return, busy visiting the house in Portree and arranging his move.

Still, when it was time for his next class on Tuesday, his thoughts shifted back to the enigmatic young man, wondering if he would show up again.

When he entered the classroom, his eyes were immediately drawn to Potter.

The Chosen One sat cross-legged in what Severus had come to think of as his spot at the back of the class, wearing a simple white t-shirt and black leggings. When he caught Severus's eye, the corners of his mouth quirked up.

Severus quickly turned away, distracted by the pine-tree eyes. He scraped his throat.

"The asana we will begin with is called Pigeon Lunge. Kneel on the mat, then curl your right leg up in front of your body. Stretch your left leg all the way back and gently lower your torso, so your upper body rests on your front leg."

Trying hard not to only look at Potter, he watched his other students shift into the position.

"Simply cascade down into the position. Think of it not so much as a simple hip opener, but rather as a way to extend your spine. We will stay here for five minutes."

He walked around the class, making gentle adjustments whenever someone was twisting their back the wrong way, or leaning too far to the side.

Somehow, he came to stand right next to Potter. His inner voice did not even comment on his move – it just smirked at him.

He swallowed. "Can you let your inhale and exhale travel all through your body?" he addressed the class.

Potter took a deep breath at his words, then exhaled slowly. His T-shirt stretched across his vertebrae, and if Severus closed his eyes, he could smell Potter – that scent that was uniquely his, a blend of soap, warmth, and… freedom.

Potter's lunge was slightly lop-sided.

Before Severus could talk himself out of it, he placed his hands on Potter's back – placed only the swell of his thumb and the tips of his fingers on it. He applied the merest suggestion of pressure.

"That's right," he instructed quietly. "Breathe into the position. Lengthen the spine."

Potter's skin was so warm, like there was a fire inside of him that would never die.

Severus quickly pulled his hands back, afraid he would get burnt. He walked back to the front of the class.

At the end of the hour, he guided the students into Shavasana, the Dead Man's pose.

There was little to the position, really: simply lying on one's back with closed eyes, resting. He suspected it was his students' favourite pose.

For him, however, it had always been the hardest.

The first time Sandra had explained it, he had had to rush out of the room for air. The Dead Man's Pose. It was so ironic. Because by all accounts, he should have died in that shack, bleeding out on the fucking floor.

No one with his sins should have been allowed to live.

"Severus Snape deserves an Order of Merlin, and I will not rest until he is awarded one," Potter had said during his trial, eyes blazing up at the members of the Wizengamot.

It had taken months before Severus could lie in Shavasana without grinding his teeth or wanting to run his fingers across the scar on his neck.

"Shavasana is the moment you reap the benefits of your practice," he spoke to the class. "Lie down on the mat, perhaps with a blanket to cover you, and let the shoulders soften. Let the jaw relax."

The room grew quiet. The only lights he left on were the few flickering candles in the alcove.

"Let yourself fall. All the way back into the space of the mat. And then just breathe."

Too soon, the class was over.

Severus would never admit it to anyone, but he might have taken the liberty, when the receptionist with his ridiculous bangles was out to lunch, of checking the studio's register to see which passes were registered under Potter, H. An eight-session pass, he had discovered.

Which, if memory served him right (his inner voice rolled its eyes), this meant today was Potter's final session.

His students trooped out to get changed. Severus tidied up the mats and blankets.

He did not know what he had expected – but perhaps he should have, given the House Potter had been sorted into.

"Professor?"

He turned around faster than he would have liked. Potter was standing in front of him, the only student left in the room.

There was an ease about him had been utterly absent the first time he had come to the studio. Had he somehow managed to grow taller?

"I haven't been your professor for a long time now," was all Severus could think to say.

"Oh. Right," Potter spoke, finally sounding like his old self again, incapable of eloquence. But then he smiled. "Severus then."

Severus heard his own choked gurgle. He had not given the cheeky whelp permission to use his given name! He should admonish him for –

But Potter blazed straight through his indignation. "You know, I miss the food at Anzan-ji. I heard there's a good Japanese place over at Clapham Common. Would you like to have dinner there tonight?"

Dinner. Tonight. Now.

Severus stared. "With you?"

Potter chuckled. The sound was all too appealing. "No, by yourself. Of course with me!"

The first thought that came to mind was that he had not gone out anywhere since the funeral, not even for a beer with Sandra and Hooch. The second thought was that he was most definitely not having dinner with Potter.

"Alright."

Somehow, the way Potter's bright green eyes lit up at that silenced Severus's shock.

As they walked to the restaurant in the late spring evening, the sky all blossom and fire, Severus was surprised at the ease with which Potter drew him into conversation.

"I really hated you those first days, you know. After I'd arrived and discovered my magic was gone and I had to get up at the bloody crack of dawn."

"I am aware," he replied dryly. "You were quite vocal in your letters."

He couldn't tell if Potter blushed or if it was the reflection of the streetlights that had come on.

"Yes, well, give a bloke some warning! It might have been nice to know I would have to spend three months just sitting on my arse all day."

He rolled his eyes. "Precisely how I hoped you would summarise the experience."

"You're not proud of me that I stayed the full three months?" Potter looked straight at him, something young and vulnerable in his eyes.

Desperate for an escape, Severus changed tack. "I see you agreed to a makeover, at least." He pointedly nodded at Potter's bald head.

Potter ran his hand over it, almost as if he was still getting used to it himself. For a second, Severus's fingers itched to do the same.

"Yeah," the young man laughed nervously. "I asked Ryotan to do it for me. I just figured, you know, maybe it… would be a good idea."

Severus raised an eyebrow at him, which earned him an amused glare.

"YOU were the one who sent me to a Buddhist monastery, you know! The least you could do is say it suits me." There was the impish smile again.

"It looks…" Severus pretended to inspect Potter's head. "... absolutely dreadful."

Potter laughed out loud, a big, unapologetic belly laugh, and held open the door to the restaurant for him. Entering, Potter's arm grazed his shoulder.

It was still early, so they had their pick of tables. They settled at one at the back of the restaurant. It did not escape Severus's notice that it was one that allowed both of them to keep an eye on the restaurant's door.

A young Japanese man with a pencil behind his ears brought them their menus and introduced the special of the day. Potter could clearly hardly wait for the waiter to finish his explanation. "Do you have tempura?" he asked eagerly.

Severus shook his head at the excitement in Potter's eyes when it turned out the restaurant. "I'll have that then!"

When it was his turn, Severus listed his choice in impeccable Japanese, with a sake for him and an umeshu for Potter, before handing both of their menus back.

Potter gaped. "You speak Japanese?"

He smirked. "Did Ryotan not mention evenings at Anzan-ji were for private study?"

Potter's frown was the same as when he had been a teenager, only somehow it looked much more appealing on him now. "I figured that time was mostly to catch up on sleep," he grumbled.

Severus clicked his tongue in admonition, but allowed himself a small smile. To his surprise, he realised he was enjoying himself.

Their conversation flowed freely, with Potter chatting about the monastery and Kyōto and he himself inserting the occasional question and comment. As he watched the young man speak, something in him settled, like a promise fulfilled: the Potter in front of him was nothing like the shadow that had first shown up in his class all those weeks ago. Nothing like the boy whose life he had guarded with his own all those years.

Perhaps "happy" was not the word he would use, but somehow, he knew Potter would not need him to send him halfway across the world again.

"Mmm," Potter hummed with his mouth full. "The food here is so much better than at Anzan-ji."

"Is it? I was quite content with what the monks cooked up – I do not enjoy cooking myself, so it was better than what I am accustomed to."

"You don't? I'll cook you dinner at my place some time then. Or breakfast, if you prefer."

Severus froze with his chopsticks above his ramen. Was Potter trying to seduce him into a sordid one-night stand? Was that what he was after?

He laid his chopsticks down and crossed his arms in front of him, giving his companion an icy look. "Potter, what, exactly, are we doing here?"

Potter cocked his head, thinking. "You know… I don't know." Then he smiled again, the same infuriatingly disarming smile Severus had been trying to ignore all evening. "Does that bother you?"

Severus made a sound that was neither one of consent nor dissent.

"Look," Potter also laid down his chopsticks. "I'm not really into all this ephemeral stuff or existential philosophy or something, but…"

"But?"

"Being at the monastery, I did learn that, all these years, ever since I lost my parents and didn't have such a great childhood, and then found out that I'd have to face Voldemort – "

Severus still flinched at the name, but he breathed through it.

"I learnt that it's made me cling to things. Because I never really had anything, you know?" He looked at Severus with pain in his eyes, his fingers shredding the napkin in front of him. "Or anyone, really. But talking with Ryotan and having all that time at the monastery – and visiting Sanjūsangen-dō, I realised that the more I cling, the less I have. I want to love without getting anything in return. I want to love by letting go."

After all these years, Severus was still taken aback by the ease with which Potter spoke of it.

Love.

The power the Dark Lord knows not.

"I thought you spent all your spare time at the monastery 'catching up on sleep' rather than philosophising?"

That same grin again. "I did do some things! You know… I actually kind of liked the tranquillity of life with the monks. I didn't have to make any decisions, just follow the schedule. It wasn't necessarily about doing something useful, but just…"

"Just doing?" he smirked.

"Yes." Potter nodded. And the smile on his lips was just that – a smile. Pleasure at the thought of just doing.

Severus took a sip of his sake. They sat together contently, finishing their drinks.

After they had paid, they exited the restaurant, turning to each other on the pavement.

"So, what is next for the Boy Who Lived Twice?" he asked.

The air was colder now that the sun had set, but somehow his scar didn't ache.

"I'm not sure," Potter looked up at him. "But I'll see you on Tuesday."

Severus frowned, confused. "The studio's schedule has changed; my class will no longer be on Tuesday as of next week."

Potter smiled, and his eyes were like the starry sky over the mountains of Kyōto. "I'll still see you on Tuesday."

And just like that, he walked off. Right before he rounded the corner, he turned around.

"Oh, and Severus? It's not the Boy Who Lived Twice. It's Harry. Just Harry."

With a cheeky wave, he disappeared into the night.