Title: The Ballad of Dürnstein Jail, or L'amours Dont Sui Espris (I am on fire with a love…)

Author: Rakina

Rating: NC17

Pairing: Harry Potter/Severus Snape

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter, its characters and settings are the copyrighted works of J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., her publishing companies and affiliates. No profit was made from the writing of this story.

Feedback: corieltauviqueen@yahoo.co.uk

Beta: hel_bee. Thank you, once again Hel. You're priceless.

Archive: Part of the Dusk to Dawn Wave XII at http://www.kardasi.com/HPSS/storyindex.htm

Challenge: The history challenge.

Summary: In 1192, Lord Severus Snape, King's Wizard to Richard I, 'the Lionheart', is captured and held for ransom alongside his royal master. His young clerk, Harold Potter, is imprisoned with him in the castle of Dürnstein, Austria.

Genre: Historical Romance, First Time.

Warning: Under-18. Harry is 16 here, and there is mention of an underage relationship between the king and his squire.

Author Notes: *** separates changed viewpoints from Severus to Harry or vice versa, and this font denotes a flashback.

The Old French poems and Latin spells, in italics in the story are given in translation at the end, along with some historical Endnotes denoted by symbols such as †.

The Ballad of Dürnstein Jail

Or

L'amours Dont Sui Espris (I am on fire with a love…)

by Rakina

It was a trap – an ambush that caught us. We were being as careful as we could be, travelling back through hostile European lands to England. We'd hoped to get further by sea, but a storm had forced us ashore at Aquileia, so now the four of us – King Richard and his squire, I and my clerk – were proceeding as quickly as we could, on horseback. We had almost reached the lands of Henry of Saxony, the king's brother-in-law. I had cast ‘See Us Not' spells, and it would have sufficed, had our captors not had their own powerful wizard to help them see what was hidden.

Along the sides of a mountain, hidden amongst the undergrowth, the men of Duke Leopold V of Austria were waiting for us. His Court Wizard, Astyanax Hoffmann, had scried us earlier, and now the soldiers waited along the path they knew we must travel, waiting for his signal. He cast Revelo and we were exposed. They had surprise, superior numbers, knowledge of the terrain and freshness on their side. We had weariness, and the inevitable weakness of being lost far from home. Despite our willingness to protect our lord and master, we were quickly surrounded. Richard saw the truth of the situation. Ever the tactician, he knew that to continue to resist would achieve nothing and he ordered us to let them take us.

I knew Leopold would want to humiliate my master. King Richard I, Coeur de Lion, the Lion-hearted, had been King of England since 1189, though he was a rare visitor to my homeland, preferring to spend his time in his French provinces. He was universally feted for his bravery, his strength, and his ability to lead his army to victory. He was clearly the most important and impressive of the leaders of the Third Crusade. And Leopold, a lesser man, knew it… and hated it. Upstaged and (in his opinion) humiliated by Richard at the siege of Acre, he'd left the Crusade and slunk back home, biding his time. The stormy seas had delivered my lord into his hands, and I could almost hear him rubbing them together in glee in his castle atop the mountain.

Unwilling to accept the inevitable outcome, or my brave king's capture, I immediately fought them, with hurled spells, curses and hexes. Hoffman was there; he faced me and we duelled, as equals. I think I would have felled him, but he, like his ducal master, was a sneak. I was struck down by a curse from behind, no doubt cast by one of his followers. Whether it was a witch or a wizard, they knew what they were about. I think the spell that hit me was Secto for it cut through the tissues of my lower back. At the time I felt like I'd been hit by a giant's fist, a feeling of force rather than cutting, and I fell forward, giving Hoffman the chance to disarm and bind me.

The blood that ran freely down my back felt hot and flowed thickly. I soon began to feel light-headed, and swayed atop my horse where I'd been propped. Hoffman noticed, and he ordered me to be carried in one of their baggage carts instead. Few more uncomfortable modes of transport can ever have existed. It would be fine if you were a barrel, or a side of pork, but if you're still in the land of the living and can feel pain, it is Hell.

I was hauled upright again and later taken in front of the noble Duke of Austria himself. He'd already gloated over my king's imprisonment, and sent him off to his prepared ‘guest quarters'. I wondered what had given our identity away.

“A wizard…” he sneered, peering into my face which must have been even paler than usual. “Yes… you look like one. You'd never make a humble pilgrim – neither you nor your master. Astyanax tells me you're powerful. Never mind – I have my own magical servants, and they have warded your rooms, you'll not be going anywhere until I am paid, and paid well.”

I was taken then and thrown through the door of what was to be my cell. It wasn't a dungeon, or anything quite that primitive. In fact, it was probably a guest room for visiting dignitaries. Not up to royal quarters, but certainly good enough for a travelling merchant or the like. I sat, shakily, on the edge of the bed and looked around at what was to be my kingdom for the foreseeable future.

And that is how I ended up in this room in Dürnstein castle. Like my royal master, I am being held for ransom, and here I'll have to stay until someone at home does something to change our situation, for we are powerless. It is not a pleasant feeling.

~

The room I now inhabit is not ill-equipped. There is a table of a good size. Two chairs beside the table – I grin at the thought of entertaining a guest. Maybe my jailers would like to join me for a drink? The bed on which I sit is comfortable enough and fairly large; there is a night stand next to it. A thick rug covers part of the floor. There are no bed hangings to keep the draught out, but the bedclothes seemed adequate: linen sheets, two large pillows in linen covers, woollen blankets and a heavy, felted cover. At least I doubt I'll freeze, despite the season. At the foot of the bed is a large trunk, presumably for my clothes. They won't take up much room. I have less now than when I set out on crusade two years ago – not that clothes have ever bothered me much except from a purely practical viewpoint.

Up against one wall there is a bench covered in cushions and a bolster or mattress. Ideal for lounging and relaxing, which is just as well, for there seems to be nothing here to divert me and I will most likely be forced to spend my time reclining and counting the cracks in the ceiling. Opposite where I'm sitting now there is a doorway. I expect it to be locked, but my curiosity won't let me sit here until I've checked. Were I still in possession of my wand, I'd point to it and see if the door opens with Alohomora , but as they've taken it from me, the only way is to go across and try the handle.

The door swings open easily, into a small room. A garde-robe . This room is for hanging and keeping robes, as its name implies, and there are several dark robes hanging here, which I must presume are for my use. But it is more than a wardrobe. It is the toilet. Muggles keep their robes in the toilet, because the smell deters moths. I don't doubt that when I've been here awhile, the smell will deter me as well. There is a stone seat with a circular hole leading down to a cess-pit. Primitive, but effective. No chance of escape that way, even if you were reckless enough to try, for the hole narrows until the exit is no larger than a water-spout. And no way of cleaning the wonderful thing. Thankfully, these rooms haven't been used recently, and the smell is a mere hint of what's to come when I've been here a while. I sigh, but take the opportunity to empty my bladder, before returning to sit on my bed.

I still feel a little light-headed and I know I've lost a fair amount of blood. My robes are dry and stiffening now and will probably stick to my wound unless I tend to myself. I cast a wandless Purgo , trying to concentrate its power on my back, but I can feel it's had little effect. My general weakness won't be helping.

I remove my robes carefully, before they can adhere to the drying stickiness on my back. I sit on the bed wearing just my boots and braies. I shiver, for the air is cold. It's nearly Yule, the midwinter festival that the Muggles celebrate as Christmas. I lay face-down on the bed turning my head to one side. I pull a woollen blanket over myself, fairly sure it won't stick to my wound like this.

I don't intend to, but I suppose it was inevitable that I drift off into a restorative sleep.

***

The guard pushes me through the door, and slams it behind me. I hear the lock snick into place and the whisper of wards rising as it does so. Of course, this area is not only locked, like the king's quarters, but this room is warded as well to confine magic.

So it doesn't surprise me to turn and see a figure lying slumped on the bed. I know who it must be – the only other wizard in King Richard's party: Lord Snape. It's entirely fitting I've been put in here with him. Not only am I the only other magical prisoner, I am his clerk. I presume the king and Guy Picard, his squire, are in another set of rooms, probably grander than these.

I was assigned my position when I left the Wizarding monastery on Eigg, eager to join the English king's Crusade. I'm not even a Christian – well, not strictly, but I wanted to travel, to see beyond the small Scottish isle where I'd lived since childhood and where I received my magical education. As dearly as I love Eigg, I wanted to see more of the world before choosing to settle there, and a trip to Jerusalem – the very centre of the world – sounded such an exciting chance. And it was. I saw and learned so much on our journey, things I could never have imagined.

I met an eye-wizard in Lebanon, and my sight is much improved, and for that alone I'm glad I went on Crusade. But I could not have dreamed the journey would end here, in Dürnstein castle. We were so nearly safe, and home was calling to us.

I travelled as clerk to the King's Wizard. Lord Snape is a tall, dark, scholarly man. When I was assigned as his clerk, the king's chamberlain warned me about him: "He's a loner, young Harry, and a short-tempered, fearsome wizard. You'll be wise not to cross him. He's never kept an assistant for more than a month or two."

In fact, it turned out that he's best described as a moody git. He is not a talkative individual, but as long as I did my work each day and didn't bother him, we got on well enough. Apart from collecting the day's work and returning it when it was completed, I haven't seen as much of him as I would have expected. I am used to being obedient to older wizards; it has been a part of my life at the Wizarding monastery, and I obeyed him readily enough to please him. Enough that he didn't hex me, anyway.

My fellow clerks, squires and body-servants spend far longer in the company of their masters, but Lord Snape prefers to be alone wherever possible, and he made that plain when I first met him.

"What do you want now?" Lord Snape sounded in an ill mood as I entered his work tent that first evening after I was assigned to him.

"Um… I wondered if you needed me to do anything this evening, master."

"Do you think I have some weakness in my voice?" he roars, and anyone who thought his voice was weak would be an utter idiot. I shake my head emphatically. "Then why in the name of the Furies would you assume that I am incapable of yelling for you if I want your presence, you benighted idiot?"

Well, that's plain enough. I thought I ought to come and see, just in case he thought I was neglecting him. The other clerks and squires tend to their masters in the evening, and I don't want to be accused of slacking.

"I would appreciate your non-appearance in the evenings, Potter," he continues. His face is flushed and he looks fearsome, with spittle flying from his mouth and his arms gesturing at me to get out even as he shouts at me. "I am not looking for the company of some callow youth, is that clear? I insist on privacy in my own quarters. Is that too much to ask, boy?"

I shake my head again, wondering at his vehemence, and as he continues to glare I manage to stutter: "Yes… yes, master."

"Then leave me alone, and don't come back until tomorrow!"

That memory is what makes my heart sink now as I approach the bed.

My master is slumped over as if he'd fallen asleep unexpectedly. The last time I saw him, he was duelling with Duke Leopold's Court Wizard. The king had issued the order to cease resistance, but I don't think Lord Snape heard it. He continued resisting, and was felled by a spell from behind. We groaned at the cowardly nature of that, but we obeyed the king and allowed ourselves to be escorted to the castle at the top of the hillside. Dürnstein, our prison is called.

I approach and take in his appearance. He's pale –that's not unusual for him – but he looks drawn and his eyes appear sunken. He's pulled the cover over himself, and his robe is discarded beside the bed. I bend down to pick it up to fold it, and my hand comes into contact with the sticky residue of blood. I should have expected it – I saw him wounded when he was captured. I fold the robe onto the chair; I'll have to arrange to get it cleaned somehow, but for now I need to find out how badly he's hurt.

Trying not to disturb him, I pull the cover down. Lord Snape is lying on his front, head to one side, and I soon see why. His lower back has been opened by a spell – perhaps Secto . The wound is deep, cutting through muscle, and has bled profusely. It extends from just to the right of his spine across to the side, its track slightly diagonal, extending towards his braies. Their pale linen is soaked, the dark blood shockingly clear against the creamy cloth.

I can find new braies later if I'm lucky, but for now I examine the wound more carefully. The bleeding has stopped, although the sides of the wound still gape like a startled mouth. He's probably cast a general healing spell on himself, but this wound needs more than that. I curse my unfamiliarity with Healing; it's not a discipline I've ever needed to learn beyond the very basic spells. On Eigg we had our own Healers and apprentices. The king has his own doctors, but even if they were still with us that would not help, for this is a magical injury. I reinforce Snape's spell by casting Sano over the wound, though I can see no obvious difference once I've done it. I can only hope it will make it less likely to bleed again.

I pull the cover back over my sleeping master. He hasn't stirred and I'm sure he needs to sleep, so I turn my attention to examining our room.

Minutes later, I've exhausted the possibilities of exploration. The quarters are not extensive, but they're not stifling for two. I used the garde-robe, thankful that we have that luxury at least. I'd been expecting buckets with – if we were lucky – lids.

There is a jug of water on the table and I look for goblets, finding four in the small stand by the bed. I pass my hand over the water, casting a wandless Detector spell. All seems well, so I drink. The water tastes pure and untainted, and again I'm pleasantly surprised, we could be in much worse straits. I go and sit on the padded seat, kicking my boots off and lifting my tired legs up to ease their aches. There is only one bed. It's a large bed, and of course it will be Lord Snape's. This bench is well-padded, if not overlarge. I suppose I'll soon get used to it. Compared to some of the places I've had to sleep on this journey, I'm not about to complain.

I watch my sleeping master. I'm happy enough living in such close proximity; because of my monastic upbringing privacy is not something that worries me, either way. We had communal areas for dining and working, so I am comfortable having people around me. We also had single cells for sleeping and studying, and I am equally able to be alone when necessary. But my master is different: he will probably find this situation more irksome as he is not a sociable man, to say the least.

When I first went to his tent to announce my appointment as his clerk, I found a dour man working alone, concentrating on brewing a potion. He waved to me to sit down and told me, in no uncertain terms, not to interrupt him. Once he'd finished, he expressed satisfaction at gaining a helper, but straightaway proceeded to lay down a series of rules for me to follow. Don't disturb me, keep as low a profile as possible, and do exactly as I say. Of course, over the two years we spent on Crusade, I sometimes offered to help him with his brewing, but he was pretty rude about my abilities after testing me a few times.

The potions he brews so efficiently and smoothly are complex, often experimental brews of his own devising. He has been responsible for providing healing potions and other less obvious draughts for the royal entourage throughout our travels. I cannot think the king will be very pleased when he hears about my master's current condition.

He tells me I have been an efficient enough clerk, though. My writing skills are acceptable to him and he often dictates letters or potions notes to me. I was also put in charge of our money, buying supplies from local markets, and ensuring my master had the food he preferred whenever possible. He appears to be a hard individual, stone-faced and fond of very few of his fellow-men, but I have got used to him now. He tolerates me, and he seems to admire the king, but I have seen no evidence of interaction with any of the other members of the entourage. Magical folk often stay aloof from Muggles as a matter of course, but in these sorts of endeavours – war, Crusade, pilgrimage – people often develop a spirit of camaraderie. Lord Snape hasn't done so.

I mentally shrug. I can do nothing about his nature and must wait and see how we manage, locked in here together. I lie back on the improvised couch and let my eyes drift closed, giving in to my body's demand for rest.

***

I wake feeling stiff and with a dull headache. I don't normally sleep face-down, and briefly wonder why I've ended up like this. When I crack my eyes open, I'm facing the stone wall of a room. There's a couch on the other side of the room pushed up against the wall, and there's a young man reclining asleep on it. My clerk, Harold Potter. Despite myself, I have to smile.

When Harry first introduced himself to me, he was like an annoying ray of sunshine intruding into my dark chamber. He was far too optimistic, excited to be going out into the world, endlessly cheerful and convinced that life was good. He soon learned that his role as my clerk demanded a more sedate approach. He still tried several times to engage me in conversation, or to spend time with me round the fire in the evening. By the time we reached the Holy Land, he'd given up. The long miles had taught him that, wherever possible, I avoid getting close to people.

I have found satisfaction in my place in the service of King Richard: a soldier-king – a brilliant one – who prefers the company of men. I know, as few genuinely do, though many suspect, that Richard prefers young men in his bed to the pick of the female camp-followers, or appreciative local ladies. He does not like the look of me, for which I'm not surprised and it's just as well anyway, for as I'm a wizard that would be a politically dangerous liaison, even for him.

But my clerk Harry is an attractive young man, and I allow myself to enjoy the sight of him as he reclines there, asleep. The king would appreciate young Harry, I'm sure. So I have made sure Harry is busy with my work and does not join the court's revels in the evenings, nor is he allowed to wander among the tents of the men. He probably thinks I'm being a sour old scholar – which I am – but I am also keeping him safe. Those lords with similar weaknesses to mine would soon be drawn to the lure of Harry's striking green eyes.

I remember my fascination with his eyes when I first met him. He entered my shadowed tent and squinted, trying to locate me in the gloom. Once he had, he still peered intently as if he needed to be sure of me. I'd thought he was trying to work out my character, or maybe he just couldn't believe my individual cast of features, which I'll admit are – to put it kindly – striking. But I soon realised it was because he couldn't see well from a distance. So now I allow him to stand near me when we work, even though the proximity is something I wouldn't normally encourage. His bright green eyes often draw my glances, and I cannot say it helps my self-control to have him so close.

Merlin knows it is hard for me to ignore him. Secretly, I admit I would like to behave as the king does. My position in life – as a wizard working in the employ of Muggles – means that I must not give in to such desires. The king's position is such that he can behave as he will, and as long as he's fairly discreet his followers and the churchmen will turn a blind eye. But I am not a king.

On a few occasions as we waited to embark at some port, or wandered around Turkish markets, I looked and noticed what went on, but I have never dared to cross that line. It has always been something I would like to try, but homosexuality is not an easy cross to bear in a royal court. So Harry, like the rest of my companions, thinks of me as sexless, ascetic. It is for the best if he never guesses otherwise, or he would find it intolerable to have to live with me in such close quarters.

I flatten my hands against the mattress and push myself up. I can't help a groan – my back is bloody painful. In more normal circumstances I'd have taken a painkilling potion and an internal healing draught at the least. Eventually I get myself upright, kneeling on the bed; the cover has fallen down over my legs. I'm thirsty and I take a goblet from the small stand beside the bed and get up to fetch the water-jug.

As I approach Harry's couch he must sense me, for he opens his startling eyes and looks up, and smiles at his master. "You're awake."

"Evidently."

He sees the goblet in my hand and sits up. "Let me get you some water."

He pours the water and I drink gratefully. My throat feels like it's been scraped by the blunt side of a knife. I drain the goblet and he pours more.

"There is a bowl of water in the garde-robe," he says. "I can wash your wound if you wish. I've found you some clean braies – our clothes are in the trunk over there." He waves towards the foot of the bed.

I nod. "Yes, it would be wise."

I put the goblet down and follow him into the small side-room. This is a multi-purpose area, though its atmosphere will soon become unpleasant and we'd be wise to keep the door closed between the two rooms. "We'd best take this into the other room," I instruct.

Harry nods and picks up the water-bowl and some clean linens left there for our ablutions. I turn back and rummage through the trunk in the bedroom. My spare robe is there, and Harry's second robe, and our clean braies. Our travelling cloaks are not in evidence, which I suppose doesn't matter much as we won't be going anywhere for a while. I cannot see any potions. "Did you find any potions in here?" I ask Harry, snapping at him out of a mixture of pain and habit.

"No, master. I looked around while you were asleep. There's nothing to help with this, except clear water."

"The drinking water is good; we must hope that it suits my wound." I turn away from the young man and loosen the cord on my braies, allowing them to droop lower. "Your cleaning it would help."

"Master…" he says hesitantly.

I turn my head to look at his uncertain expression. "What?"

"You need to change those braies; they're all bloody at the back."

"Oh, of course," I admit, feeling foolish. The wound must have bled as freely onto my braies as it did on my robes. I untie the cord completely and let the braies fall to the floor. I hear Harry's gasp. "Is the wound larger than you thought?"

"N… no. No, it's fine, I just…"

The young man is quite hopeless at times. I've noticed before this tendency of his to splutter and get embarrassed. The slightest glimpse of naked flesh and his tongue stumbles around his mouth like a lame beggar.

"Just wash the wound, Harry," I say, trying to sound exasperated by his embarrassment. Even after two years on Crusade, travelling with an army, Harry is delightfully innocent and easy to embarrass. It just proves that my strategy for keeping him that way has succeeded, and I smirk inwardly.

Harry tentatively wipes the cool cloth over my back, above the wound and to the sides. He doesn't touch the wound itself, or I would soon feel the pain of it. But nor does he clean my buttocks, where the blood must have run.

"By Merlin's staff! Will you cleanse it properly? I will not disintegrate if you apply some pressure, boy! And clean my arse as well!"

I can hear him choke and splutter. It shouldn't give me this much pleasure to taunt him, but I will have to find my entertainment where I can, now I'm shut in here for the foreseeable future. He resumes his ministrations, and this time he's firmer. He cleans the blood from where it's spread, and finally cleans the wound itself. It's very sore, even for a deep wound. I wonder if the spell had other properties besides cutting. Sometimes extra charms are added to prevent healing, or to cause infection or pain.

"Shit! Sano! " Harry cries, and I can feel the wound has started bleeding again. "It's not scabbed over yet," he explains, pressing the cloth against it to staunch the bleeding.

"It will take a while," I soothe him. I can feel his fingers trembling where he's touching me, wiping the newest blood flow away. I need him to have confidence that he can heal me, even though I know he has little of the art. Perhaps I should have shown him some of it before now, but it's a bit late to be thinking of that. We must do our best in this situation. "As we have no salve, it won't be wise to dress it, or the linen will stick to such an open wound. I will wear loose robes and try not to get anything stuck to it. I must see if I can get an audience with a physician, or an apothecary."

Harry takes the bloodied cloth and water away, I hear him emptying the bloody water down the garde-robe. He comes back into the room carrying a light woollen robe. I'm glad to see it, the air is cold and I have goose-flesh. Harry helps me on with the robe as my movements are limited by the need to keep the wound still and give it a chance to heal.

In frustration, I walk over to the door and pound on it with my fist. "Hey! Guard! Fetch the castellan! Can you hear me? The castellan!"

"Master, your wound," Harry says, placing a hand on my pounding arm. "Let me…"

He's right, of course. I'm not sure I haven't opened the bloody wound again. I'm beginning to feel light-headed with blood-loss and the stress of the situation. I reluctantly go and sit on the couch, grumbling about milksop servants, while Harry starts pounding on the door.

For ten minutes or so after Harry stopped pounding, nothing happens. Harry sits on the edge of the bed, looking at me. I wish he wouldn't, I know I must look more off-putting than usual, and I probably won't improve over the time we're in here. There is no curtain or shutters over the narrow window and it's letting far too much light in for my comfort. I prefer the gloom of a tent interior, or a dungeon room, where I can skulk without having to suffer the close scrutiny of my fellows.

There's a clank as the lock is freed and the whisper of falling wards. A tall, thin, purple-robed figure enters our room, carrying a pale wand. "Freiherr Snape," he says, looking at me.

I incline my head. "And you are?"

"Jacob Reiter, Duke Leopold's Court Physician and Second Mage," the wizard replies.

He's a perfectly respectable-looking wizard, and I should feel the camaraderie all magical folk who live among Muggles feel, but I'm wary of him. For all I know, he might be the very one who cast the spell on me.

"My master is injured!" Harry interrupts. He knows the correct form and has deliberately ignored it. I frown at him, but I wonder if I may be injured more severely than I first thought if Harry is willing to incur my displeasure over his breach of etiquette. "Please, we need salves, healing creams and cleansers."

"You were hit by a spell on capture, I believe," Reiter says, his face showing a satisfied smirk that I don't like the look of. "You refused to lay down your wand even when others had ceased to resist."

"My master was hit from behind!" Harry protests. "A cowardly attack, however you look at it."

To my surprise, Reiter smiles at Harry's swift defence. "This youth is your…"

"…Clerk. Just my clerk. Harry Potter," I tell him, emphasising Harry's role in case Reiter gets the idea we have a closer relationship.

The dark man glances between us and smiles. "Of course, Freiherr. He seems quite attached to you." He smirks.

"What kind of clerk would leave his master untended while he's injured?" Harry protests. I know he doesn't understand the undercurrents of our conversation.

"Quite so, and of course he shall be tended. Let me see your wound," he says to me.

Harry helps me shed my robe. Reiter approaches me and leans down to look closely. I feel his long cool fingers probing the margins of the wound.

" Secto for sure…" he muses, "and something else, I think. Could be Irrito perhaps… or Effringo …"

"You could find out what spells were used, couldn't you?"

"It would not be wise or productive for me to question the wizards who took part in your capture, Freiherr. Hit Wizards have their own methods and spells, often passed down through their families. They jealously guard them. Unless the duke says otherwise, they will not tell me. Were you in peril of your life, then perhaps it would be worth asking."

I nod. I hadn't expected it to be so easy. "I would like to brew some salves and healing creams," I say. "Would that be allowed?"

"I can give you potions," Reiter says.

"No doubt, but you will forgive me if I say that I would feel more comfortable if I used my own brews. And the work will help me pass the time."

"Yes, that is understandable, I suppose." Reiter flashes me a smile, as a fellow potion-maker, it seems he understands the torment of being unable to brew. "I will see what can be arranged. Meanwhile, I will send you a basic honey and garlic wash, if you will accept it?"

I incline my head. There is little chance anything harmful could be hidden in that, and my nose is sensitive to most poisons.

"I will also send enough linens for your treatment, and utensils. You will be well treated. You are valuable, of course, while still alive." He smirks again and turns to leave.

"Don't take too long," Harry impertinently calls after him. "My master needs the treatment soon. And please let us know when Lord Snape can brew some healing potions."

"I will return, soon," Reiter says, looking more tolerant of Harry's interruption than I would have expected from such a self-important fellow. I see something in his eyes – and of course, he too appreciates this handsome young man. I determine to watch the Austrian wizard. It wouldn't be wise to leave Harry alone with him.

***

I watch the wizard leave, and I'm glad he seems helpful. I was really worried that we'd only have water to treat Lord Snape's wound. It's deep and gaping and I can see the different layers of fat, flesh, and muscle. It's vulnerable to infection and needs closing. Muggles use stitches, as if bodies were pieces of cloth, though I believe the method works, but Wizard Healers can close wounds far more neatly with the right spells. It's more difficult than it sounds: the caster must be able to align their magic with that of the patient. Good Healers are gifted; many say they are born, not made. And all I've ever learned is the basic first aid spells.

Just moments later the door wards fall again and a warder brings a jug and places it on the table.

"From the wizard," he says in a heavy accent, and beats a hasty retreat. He pulls the door shut with more force than necessary, and the wards reset.

I lift the jug. The smell of garlic and honey fills the room. I hand it to my lord.

"Acceptable," he declares, after having passed his not inconsiderable nose over the jug and inhaled deeply. "Wash the wound with this now."

"Of course," I answer, glad to be able to do something to help.

As I fetch fresh cloths and soak them, my lord continues: "And cast your strongest healing spell afterwards. Which ones do you know?"

"Only the basics. We had Healers at the monastery and so the rest of us only learned first aid spells. Sano, Purgo, Sicco and Tepisco ."

My lord huffs an exasperated breath, no doubt at my lack of Healing knowledge, or perhaps it's the way I'm washing his wound that is paining him. I wipe more gently, and then I find out it's not physical pain that prompted the sound.

"Don't be such a fucking girl with that, Harry! I'm not made of glass."

"Sorry," I hastily apologise, and set about cleansing all areas of the cut with the pungent wash.

"Garlic is antiseptic and honey prevents the growth of mould, so it's a good basic treatment," my master instructs as I continue. "It won't close the wound, but it will help keep infection at bay."

Once I'm satisfied that all the areas are covered, I dry the excess liquid from his skin and hand him his robe once more. He grunts his thanks.

When I return after dealing with the cloths and dirty water again he's sat on the side of the bed, so I take the couch.

"I'm going to have to sleep on my front for a while. It's a damned nuisance. I prefer to be on my side."

"The wound won't really allow that, my lord. It extends right across to the spine. Even if you lay on your good side, it would compress the flesh and cause it to gape."

"You don't say!" he starts to jeer, then seems to think better of it. "How wide is it, Harry? It feels very open."

I know he wants the truth; he's not a man to accept anything less. "It's deep, and gapes widely. It badly needs closing."

He nods and looks at me. "I cannot cast on my own back, nor do I have my wand. It doesn't look very promising, unless I let that Austrian wizard loose on me."

"I don't trust him," I state. My lord looks at me with his eyebrow raised. His face is very expressive. Over the past two years I've learnt to answer a lot of his unspoken questions and demands, giving me a more pleasant life. "There was just something…that is, something about him made me uneasy."

"I agree. He's a last resort, and he hasn't offered anyway. They may regard my pain as part of my punishment for not surrendering when I should have, and it may be a deliberate part of the spell. All things considered, I'd prefer not to have his foreign magic inside my body. Healing is a very intimate act. I don't want him getting to know my magic that closely. I was hoping that your wandless magic would be sufficient."

I swallow nervously. I thought he might ask something like that. I believe I have a reasonable talent for wandless magic, and he knows it. "My lord, I will do what I can for you," I assure him, looking into his dark eyes trying to show him the sincerity in my own. "But I know little of Healers' magic."

"Then I will teach you," he says.

Lord Snape pats the side of the bed next to where he's sitting. Obediently, I get up and go and sit next to him, aware of how unusual it is for him to want me to get near him.

"Our magic should align easily enough, Harry. We've lived together for two years now."

While that's true, we haven't been in close companionship. Lord Snape very much prefers his own company. As if he reads my thoughts, he continues: "Now we share these small rooms, it is inevitable that we will develop a much closer relationship. Our magic will align. You just need to practice. It's well known that people become attuned with each other when they live closely together. Even Muggle women find their moon-cycles aligning, so it will happen to us naturally, Harry."

I nod, but I'm still nervous. I never felt I had any affinity for Healing, but now it seems I shall have to find some, or my master may die.

"I will teach you Adjungo first."

I nod again. I feel really odd sitting here next to him, almost as if he was treating me as an equal and it seems to have struck me dumb for the moment. Lord Snape is a powerful wizard, the master of Snape Castle† in Yorkshire. I am the younger son of a middle-class Wizarding family. My elder brother runs our estate in Somerset and he has three sons, so when I was ten years old I was dedicated to the monastery at Eigg either to make a life there or to gain enough education to make me useful in the employ of some great lord. It was a cheaper option than sending me to the school of Wizardry at Hogwarts, where I may have learned more about Healing, but I was happy at the monastery. Now I am sitting next to the great lord who employs me, and it seems that his wellbeing – maybe his very life – is in my hands.

"Let me have your hands." And again, it's as if he's reading my mind. "I'll show you the actions the spell requires when it's cast with a wand."

I lift my hands and he takes them in his own. Lord Snape's hands are cool, long-fingered, and precise. They remind me of a wand: they're able to work magic when he's brewing – he needs no wand then – and they're strong yet delicate at the same time. He moves his hands exquisitely. I've often stood watching him brew, awaiting the day's orders while admiring the subtle movements of his hands weaving an intricate dance as he adds ingredients and stirs in complex patterns, passing magic into the potion with the fluctuations of his body's magical field. As we touch, I can feel the magic flowing through his fingers and the sensation makes me shiver. He looks closely at me.

"Harry, are you all right with this?"

"Oh, yes! Yes, I want to help, my lord. You can trust me. But that wizard…" I shiver and leave my concerns unspoken, because truly I can't name what it is that bothers me about Jacob Reiter.

"From now on, while we're imprisoned here I want you to call me Severus. Will you do that?"

I gasp. I hadn't expected that. He's still holding onto my hands as I look at him and my bewilderment must show.

"We are going to be living cheek-by-jowl," he explains, "and we need to align our magic; 'my lord' is going to become very tedious and it will get in the way of that process. You will call me Severus," he insists.

I nod. And as if the wrong moment has been deliberately chosen, the door opens again and I look away from Severus' dark eyes to see Reiter entering the room. His eyes fix on our joined hands and he frowns. I drop my master's hands as if stung. Severus turns and looks at the Austrian.

"Freiherr Snape. It has been agreed that you can brew potions, if we provide the ingredients. You need to make a list of the supplies you need, and if we approve of them, you will receive them. There is a warded area where you can brew, but guards will be present at all times, of course."

"That is fair," Severus agrees, inclining his head. I feel his relief; I don't think he was expecting to be allowed near a cauldron. "I will write a list of what's needed for my cleansing, healing and cosmetic treatments."

"Send it to me when it's done. The guard will take it."

Reiter's eyes swivel to me. "And you will be assisting , I suppose?"

"Of course," I reply. He frowns at my short reply, so I think better of it and add, belatedly, "sir."

He grins, and it's the most horrible thing I've seen since the fall of Acre. His eyes glimmer with something that could only be called 'evil'. " Of course . As befits just a clerk." He turns his sneer on Severus and they stare at each other implacably. Something is passing between them that I don't understand, but it seems fierce. Finally, Reiter breaks the stare, turns on his heel and leaves.

"My lord?"

"Severus…"

"Sorry. What was that about, Severus?"

"Nothing. Just a test of will. He likes to push me when he can."

With that cryptic comment, he lies down on the bed, face to one side, and closes his eyes. I tidy the room, and pour us each a goblet of water. I put my master's on the stand next to the bed; he can reach across easily if he needs it. I take my own goblet over to the table, next to the couch.

"Aren't you sleeping?"

"Yes, I think I will," I answer.

"Then what are you doing over there?"

"Err… sleeping."

He pushes himself up on his hands and turns to look at me with a frown. "Are you being stupid, Harry?" His voice holds an edge of anger.

I blush, genuinely confused by what he wants. Sometimes I don't understand my master at all. At times he only needs to raise his eyebrow and I know what he wants, but other times, even when he says something, I don't understand him at all.

"Should I keep watch or something then, Severus?" I ask, wondering if he thinks we should take turns sleeping.

"What do you think you will see in here?" he snaps, but a slight smile and twinkling eyes show me he's making fun of me now. "Just come to bed. Why do you think we have this huge bed?"

"Oh!" He wants me to share with him. I'd never considered it my place, nor appropriate. But of course it makes sense, if only because it's bloody cold this time of year. Lots of my fellow-clerks and squires share quarters with their masters, and often their beds or pallets. I'm sure Guy will be sharing the king's – but this is something that's never happened with us. Severus has always been so aloof and private. Of course, that had to change when we were put in here where there is little privacy.

I'm still blushing 'like a fucking girl' as I approach the bed. There's plenty of room. Severus lowers himself onto his front again and turns his head to the wall. I quickly shrug off my robe and fold it over one of the chairs, then I climb in and slip under the covers. I snuggle down, grateful for the warmth. "Good night," I say.

He doesn't answer with words, just a sigh. I try not to take up too much room; I know it must be exasperating for him to have to share his bed.

***

I am exhausted and my limbs ache. I know it is more from the weakness of blood-loss and injury than anything I've done today. The fatigue is interfering with my ability to drift into sleep. All I want is to sleep – and yet it evades me, skittering away like a frightened rabbit whenever I get near.

And yet, I lie. Sleep is not all I want. The young man on the other side of the mattress is snuggled down comfortable and warm. He went to sleep straight away. I'd like to reach out and touch him. I'd like to run my hand down his cheek, his neck, his chest. I'd love to put my hand on his hip, in sign of possessive intent.

I am beginning to realise that I have been a fool. All these years I've been so careful – always aware of the watchers who merely tolerate me as the King's Wizard, who await their chance to denounce me. I am vulnerable to Muggle accusations of sorcery because I use magic. I am a wizard. If my enemies convinced the king I was not trustworthy, I would be arrested and summarily executed as the sorcerer I am. Like the Jews, magical folk walk a knife's edge in the Christian world. We are judged in a balance and tolerated while we are considered to be more useful than dangerous. If the balance tilts or the knife-edge turns, we are finished.

Christians are dogmatic. Anyone who steps outside of the tight lines laid down by Holy Mother Church is a 'heretic' and fair game for torture and execution. I have heard enough priests and wandering friars denounce homosexuality as a sin: ' You shall not lie with a man as with a woman; such thing is an abomination .' Aware of their hatred from my earliest years, I chose the path of celibacy, when I could stand it, and the comfort of my own hand, when I could not.

And yet am I not already condemned? For they also say: 'You shall not allow a witch to live' and that has already damned me.

And then there is the matter of the king. Richard Plantagenet has called me his friend, and I know he means it. But as a Plantagenet he is as red, fiery and hot in his enthusiasms as his temper. Were he a wizard, he'd be the archetypal Gryffindor. It must be a coincidence that his arms – three golden lions on a red shield – are the symbol of that House. As a Slytherin, I know to be wary around Gryffindors.

I have no doubt that Richard is, even now, sharing his own warm bed with the angel-faced Guy Picard. And Guy was chosen as his squire as much for his looks as his nobility, or so I and the rest of the court believe. I do not join in with their gossip, but I have ears. Twelve-year-old Guy may have been a virgin when he came into the king's service. I am equally sure that fifteen-year-old Guy is not. I have never blamed the king. He is the king, he carries the burden of great office and in return he rightly has greater freedom than any man in the world. And he is Mother Church's Crusading hero. As long as he keeps his activities behind closed doors, confined to the bedchamber, nobody will be so foolish as to comment.

Richard spends most of his life on campaign, living in military quarters. He could have his wife with him, though it's a rough life for a noblewoman. He could have courtesans, but again he chooses not to. He has sweet Guy, as accomplished as any lady, for he can sing, look pretty, and serve his lord. Yet he is a young man, trained in the art of war, and unlikely to balk at the sight or knowledge of his lord's deeds in wartime.

Now, like me with Harry, the king is imprisoned with Guy. Who knows how long we will remain here? Were I not of value as the King's Wizard, I would most likely be put to death tomorrow. 'You shall not allow a witch to live' Yet I am magical and I cannot choose to be otherwise.

Likewise, I know I am homosexual; I have never been tempted by the fine ladies of the court, or their earthier sisters who follow the army and who'd fall over themselves to attract such a wealthy and powerful lover. So why do I still obey that one proscription written in Leviticus by a Muggle Jew living thousands of years ago: ' You shall not lie with a man as with a woman; such thing is an abomination ' when I will always fall foul of the sorcery law anyway?

Harry stirs in his sleep, and turns. He is closer now. I have chosen to turn my head to the wall – if I don't see the temptation, perhaps it won't be there. But that approach never works. I can feel Harry's presence in my bed as if he were afire. I move my right hand until it comes into contact with Harry's arm where it is splayed out on the mattress. Soft skin overlying hard muscle. Warmth and humanity – and comfort. I leave my hand over his forearm, the touch calms me and eases my pain a little, and I finally manage to find the blissful insensibility of sleep.

***

When I awake, I am, at first, disoriented, not recognising my surroundings. Seconds later it comes back to me – I'm imprisoned with my master, being held for ransom along with the King of England.

Another groan – it's the noise that woke me. My master is moaning in his sleep. For now, I'm too concerned to worry about the fact that we're in the same bed. I cast a wandless Lumino , lighting all the candles in the room. It's enough light to see he's sweating and his face is screwed up in pain. His eyes move beneath their lids – he's dreaming, and they cannot be good dreams accompanied by such agony.

I get up and pad barefoot to the garde-robe, where I find clean cloths and the cleansing potion. I quickly return to Severus, glad to get up on the bed again as my feet have frozen just in the little distance beyond the rug. The December night is not kind to those who have stone floors and no slippers.

I peel back the blanket and take the opportunity to look at Severus' wound. It's redder than before, which may be a sign of infection, or just irritation caused by the curse that inflicted it. I briefly debate whether to wake Severus or not before I start tending him. I quickly decide to wake him: his dreams are not allowing him restful sleep so he may be glad of the disturbance, and my wound-washing will not be a shock to him if he's awake.

"My lord…" I shake his shoulder tentatively.

Severus moans and then mutters something unintelligible before drifting back to his dream. I must start being more forceful and stop acting like a girl. I'm always wary of him – he's a strong wizard and an imposing man, and his temper is often short. But I've decided to wake him, so I shake him again, harder.

This time I'm successful. "Wha…?" he opens his eyes and frowns up at me. "Harry? Are we attacked?"

"My lord, you were dreaming, and you are feverish. I've woken you to cleanse and cool your wound."

I see realisation of our situation come into his eyes. "Shit," he says succinctly.

Severus pushes himself up until he's kneeling on the mattress. His braies are quite loosely tied and not cutting in at all, but the skin around the wound is red and angry in a wide circle, part of which is under the braies. "Perhaps you'd be more comfortable if you loosen your braies," I falter.

Severus lets out a bark of laughter. "Trying to get into my pants, Harry?" His coarse response surprises me. "Shit…" he mutters again, then loosens the cord holding them up and the braies slide lower down. It's touch and go whether they slide off completely, but they decide to perch on the widest part of his lean hips.

When I don't move, Severus' impatience results in more insults: "Well, do something, boy! At this point I care little what it is, but I have no desire to kneel here like an impotent pilgrim before the shrine of the Blessed Foreskin at Charroux!"

I start trickling cool cleanser into the wound, then wipe the skin all round. Severus sighs, which I take as a good sign. Anything less than a temperamental outburst must be positive right now.

"Enough," he says after a while. He doesn't pull the braies higher, but lies down again, face to the side, looking at me. I take a clean cloth and dip it into fresh water and start wiping his brow. He's obviously hot and uncomfortable. He sighs again, and this is a definite sign of appreciation.

"I am not a good companion, Harry."

"Hush, my lord, nobody would be sociable while they were wounded and in pain."

"Severus," he admonishes.

His voice is quieter, though his face occasionally contorts as pain lances through him. I continue my soothing, wiping over his back and arms with the damp cloth, frequently refreshing it in the bowl of cold water which I'd fetched from the garde-robe. I feel his skin under the cloth beginning to feel less fiery, and I'm encouraged.

"I'm lucky to have you here with me, Harry," he says quietly.

"Hush, my lord, it is my duty to serve you. Whatever you need."

"Severus," he mutters again.

I feel a fool for forgetting so easily and mentally administer a good kicking to myself. I'm soothing the back of his neck now, cooling him where his sweaty hair was clinging in tendrils to his fevered flesh.

"You need a fever potion, and a painkiller," I observe.

"With such insight, you are a great loss to the arts of Potions and Healing," he snipes, though his voice is not as acerbic as earlier, and the insult is almost friendly.

He still moans from time to time, though the sounds are becoming more widely spaced and less anguished. I lean across to wipe his upper arm that's on the far side from me, and under his armpit, and he groans aloud again. I must have hurt him.

"That will do, foolish boy!"

I put the cloth and the bowl on the night-stand. "Shall I darken the room?" I try not to let my disappointment show in my voice.

"Leave one candle alight…" he mutters.

With a wave of my hand the room is almost dark again. I hope he'll be able to sleep. I settle next to him again and for a while we lie there and listen to each other's breathing. Severus moans again and I can't help but reach out and place my hand on his arm. I hope he doesn't mind, but it's an instinctive reaction to another person in pain. He sighs in what sounds like relief, so I stroke my hand in a soothing circle, and he calms again.

"I'll write my list tomorrow…" he mutters.

"Good," I say, wanting to acknowledge I've heard him, but not wanting to converse. I'm hopeful he'll find the comfort of sleep soon. My hand still strokes and I feel him relax a little more.

He mutters something further. I didn't quite catch it, but it might have been: "Nice…"

I lean a little closer and let my left hand stroke soothingly over his right shoulder. His muscles are tense and I concentrate on easing their tension. Occasionally, Severus moans, but this time they sound more like appreciative responses to a massage rather than pained grunts. I can tell he likes this, so I persist.

I'm beginning to drift towards sleep again myself, my rhythmic actions soothing both of us. Severus shuffles a bit sideways so I can reach him better. I don't want to get close to his wound, but it's easier now he's right next to me. I don't remember when I fall asleep, but I think Severus was there before me.

***

I wake to the light of dawn brightening our room. The window is not large, more of an arrow-slit than anything and too narrow to pass through. Not that I'd try – we are high up on the side of the castle overhanging a sheer drop, and I don't fancy trying wandless levitation for the first time over such a deep gorge. The wind comes through and chills the room, and I intend to ask the guard for some heavy curtains.

After the light, and the chill, I notice I'm enclosed in a warm bed, and – more amazingly – in a warm embrace. I have my right arm stretched across Harry and he is snuggled into my side, a few strands of his wayward hair tickle my chin. We have to share the bed, but I hadn't intended to get so close to Harry, or not so soon, anyway. I have memories of painful episodes throughout the night, waking and groaning in anguish. I also remember being calmed and soothed by a cooling cloth wiping my pain away with my sweat. And I remember Harry's gentle touch…

Reluctantly, I move my arm from him and push myself up. I need to go to the garde-robe, but I cannot stretch over him for fear of worsening my wound. I shake his shoulder: "Harry, wake up."

to be able to judge the progress of a potion. Writing was always a better activity for him, though his nose approached the parchment the whole time.

In Lebanon, we met a wizard called Al-Rashid‡, a wise, elderly Arab who was a better eye-doctor than I had imagined existed anywhere in the known world. We explained Harry's problem, and he seemed optimistic that he could help with his own spells. We watched him treat various patients, and it was obvious he knew what he was doing. His craft was secret, and he'd passed the knowledge to his two sons, so it was going to remain in his family. Harry was keen to take this opportunity that he'd never have again, and chose to go ahead with the treatment.

I insisted on paying half the fee – Harry is my clerk and his well-being is my concern. He hadn't wanted to let me contribute at all, but we'd compromised after an incandescent row the evening before the procedure. Well, I'm not sure compromise is the correct word – stalemate describes it better.

Al-Rashid didn't care who paid, as long as somebody did. His process was worth every silver denier?. Harry's vision isn't perfect even now, but it's so much better than before.

"Oh," Harry says as he manages to focus on me. "Yes, of course, hang on…"

Harry pushes himself out of bed, running a hand through his messy locks to try and make them behave. I scramble out and head for the other room.

When I return, feeling far more comfortable, Harry goes into the garde-robe. It's lighter still, and I decide I might as well get up. My body is goose-fleshed by the chill dawn air and I hunt for my loose robe. Harry returns and says: "I'll help you with that."

We get the robe on with minimal fuss and it's loose enough that I hope it will keep from sticking to the open wound. I can feel the gape of my flesh – a horrid sensation.

"I'll dictate the list for Reiter," I tell Harry.

"All right," he agrees. "And then I'll clean the wound again, master."

I raise my eyebrows to tell him I've noticed his use of the title, and he blushes.

"Um… Severus."

"I'm looking forward to it already," I say wryly. "Now, write down these ingredients:

For cleansing: garlic, nettle and willow-bark

For healing: Arnica, both root and flowers if possible; centaury; chamomile; rue; cowbane; narcissus root; marigold and yarrow.

For the final wash: chickweed."

Harry diligently writes it all down. "I'll call the guard, Severus," he suggests.

"He'll be here soon with food, I hope. We'll hand it over then."

Harry looks as if he'd like to argue the point, but he makes an effort to obey. He's always been like this. He is an intelligent young man who has many ideas, usually sound ones. I can see his monastic education has made him obedient, but I can also see it's not his nature to be so. While he has to obey me, I don't mind hearing his opinions. I've asked him for them since we've been together, but today I think that because of my wound he's deferring to me without voicing his objection. This grates: I'm physically wounded, but no less capable of expressing my opinions.

"Then I'll clean your wound." Harry heads off to the garde-robe for the water and cloths. This time, it was a statement; he's not bothered to ask. I wonder if I should object to him instructing me, but decide it would be foolish at this time, for I do want the blessed coolness of the cleansing wash on my back.

Harry is just cleaning away the equipment, and I'm feeling more comfortable, when the guard enters with a board covered with food, and a jug.

"Take this to Jacob Reiter," I instruct, handing over the list.

The guard nods. I'm unsure how much the man understands, but he caught the wizard's name. He scuttles out in a hurry. I know we make the Muggle guards nervous. No doubt they've been regaled by tales of the 'evil eye' and being cursed. Of course, I could wandlessly cast spells on him, but there would be little point. It's in our interest to be pleasant to the guards, who control our food supply and are likely to be our only contact with our captors a lot of the time.

I turn to Harry as he enters the room. "Try not to use wandless magic in front of the guards, or anyone else for that matter. The less they know of our strengths, the better."

Harry nods and sits by my side at the table. Bread, butter, cheese and a jug of milk; apples and figs as well. There is no reason for complaint, and the quantities are generous. "Wow!" Harry comments.

"Indeed," I agree, helping myself to a plateful. My stomach is rumbling and I tuck in with enthusiasm. We've had much thinner fare over the course of the last two years, on many occasions.

After breakfast, Reiter returns.

"You can start brewing this afternoon," he tells me. "I will come with the guards and we will take you to the brewing room. You are to be allowed all the ingredients you requested, save one. Astyanax says you may not have cowbane – it is a dangerous plant, very poisonous."

"In small quantities it's also a good pain-killer," I observe.

"We need something for my master's pain," Harry interjects.

Reiter smirks again, knowingly. He really is getting annoying. The man is seeing more than exists in this. "You must manage with what is given," he says dismissively, and leaves abruptly. I'm sure the thought of my pain doesn't bother him at all, probably the reverse.

"Your wound is very sore, Severus," Harry says, unnecessarily.

"Really? I hadn't noticed," I drawl.

He's not deterred, but continues: "It's gaping more than before and will be more difficult to close."

I have no answer to that. We can only do what we can. I proceed to demonstrate Adjungo to him again, and watch his hand-movements as he makes the passes. He's getting to grips with the gestures now: they're flowing better, but still not quite the right shape. I just hope that soon our magic will be close enough for him to cast a good spell wandlessly. I can tell he's worried about the wound, and though I hate to admit it, so am I. The pain, heat and inflammation I can feel are to be expected, but too much could indicate infection. The wound couldn't be in a worse position for me to treat myself, and I must rely on Harry.

Suddenly, a thought strikes me: "Can you cast Speculum wandlessly?"

"I've never tried, but I'll have a go."

"The blank wall there would be worth a try. If I could see the wound…"

Harry looks at me doubtfully, as if considering the wisdom of that, but he extends his arm and casts the spell. The wall shimmers, glows a little, and then returns to its everyday, stony appearance. Harry shrugs.

"Fuck!" I swear, balked again, and return to my bed, discouraged.

***

After lunch, I follow Severus to the brewing room that's been set aside for us. I hope he knows some good salves – well, I'm sure he does, his reputation led him to become the King's Wizard – because his wound is worrying me. I deliberately botched the wandless Speculum ; I don't think it would help him to see the angry, swollen wound, its lips gaping widely. I know it hurts him when his robe brushes against it. It must hurt constantly. His temper isn't improved by it, but he's always been brusque with me anyway.

"I'll brew my own cleansing wash first," he tells me. "Then I'll do a healing salve. I will tell you how to prepare the ingredients, and you can stir the cauldron. I will make the spell-passes."

I nod, ready to follow his instructions. He's never let me brew with him before. Occasionally I was asked to prepare ingredients, more often since my eyes were treated. But this is the first time he's accepted help while brewing.

The process is nearly painful for me, as it must be for him. I think he's getting worse, for he's very impatient and I can't do anything right. Not that ladle, the larger one, you idiot! Crush that narcissus root, don't chop it! Stir with more force – you're as prissy as a girl! and so on, and so forth. It would be pointless to remind him that I'm a clerk, not an apothecary. I can tell his temper is on a knife's-edge.

Despite this, he's an excellent potion-maker. The cleansing wash is clear and sweet-smelling.

"My wash is simple, as was Reiter's," he tells me. "It has just three ingredients: garlic, which Reiter's also contained, but mine is combined with nettle and willow-bark. All are astringent. Nettle is an all-heal, and willow-bark will numb the tissues as they're cleaned. I have brewed ample for the next week, but I will brew again then, as the infusion is more potent when fresh. Decant this, Harry."

I pour the cooled liquid into a small wine-barrel and stopper it.

"The salve is very different. It's much more complex. I've decided to use arnica – both the crushed root and the flowers; centaury; chamomile; rue; narcissus root; marigold and yarrow. Shame we never got the cowbane, but the willow-bark in the cleanser will help with the pain a little. The cowbane would have been far more effective, but Hoffman is right, it's very poisonous and I was testing my limits by asking for it.

"I will extract the infusion in as concentrated a form as possible. Then we will mix it into rendered goose grease, kindly provided by the castle's kitchens."

"Goose grease? Isn't that a bit runny?" I ask, horrified, having visions of the glistening oil dripping from the bird the last time I saw one roasted, two Yule-feasts ago on Eigg.

"If you were paying attention," Severus snaps, "you'd have noticed I used the word rendered . Once boiled and cooled, the grease becomes solid, like beef dripping. Ideal for salve once the infusions have been added. You end up with a paste-like cream. It will stay where it's put in the wound."

I blush and nod, feeling ignorant, but honestly, my acquaintance with goose grease has been fleeting, to say the least. Again, I bite back the retort that I'm a clerk, and ink and parchment are my materials. The liquid infusion is quite complex, the different plants needing different lengths of time in the cauldron.

"Fetch the rendered goose grease, Harry. It's there in that pot."

I go to the pot on the shelf, which Severus indicated. It's quite heavy and the 'grease' is solid.

"Heat it until it liquifies," Severus instructs.

He watches me with a sneer as I struggle to get the solid grease out from the pot. "Put the pot inside the cauldron, you foolish boy. Pour it out once it's runny."

Again, I feel like a child for not knowing something so obvious. Once done, he adds the liquid infusion and instructs me to stir it smoothly. I do my best as he passes his hands over the cauldron, muttering a spell.

"Now, before it cools too much, fill these salve jars."

I obey, and soon we have half a dozen pots of salve beginning to set. I hope it doesn't end up as solid as the rendered grease was before, but I daren't say such a thing, or I'll get snapped at, I just know it.

Four guards have been standing by the walls of the room, watching our every move suspiciously. One speaks up now. "You finished?"

Severus sneers at him, but answers: "Yes, we are done. When the salve is cooled we will return to our room."

"Return to your room," the guard barks. "We'll bring the salve later."

I can see my master isn't happy with this, but the guard looks as if he'd love to find a reason to get rough with us. That's the last thing Severus needs.

"Come on," I encourage. "The wash is ready, I'll take that, and I'll carry one of the salve pots carefully, as it's not set properly yet."

We dutifully follow the two guards in front, with two more bringing up the rear. I can feel my master's annoyance, but he's been in a bad mood all day, so it's nothing to wonder at. Back in our room and alone again, I cast Tepisco over the salve. I do this well: I've had plenty of practice with the cooling charm in the Holy Land, which I was frequently tempted to call Hell. It was hot and airless enough at times to feel as if we were passing through one of the Evil One's furnaces, rather than a region associated with the Son of God. I am familiar with the Muggle bible, and what they believe, but I must admit a lot of it perplexes me. Why would God send his son to live in such an arid region?

The salve sets to a paste-like consistency. I touch the tip of my finger to it, and I'm pleased that it feels as if it will be easy enough to use on the wound without hurting Severus, but thick enough to stay where it's applied.

"Now we have the wash and salve, I'd like to dress your wound properly, Severus. It will make it more comfortable and keep the robe from rubbing it."

I help him doff his robe and examine the wound. "You need to lower your braies, Severus," I mumble.

Severus is impatient today, as I may have mentioned before, and he pulls on his drawstring with a sharp tug. The braies slip down and pool at his feet. My face flames and I'm only glad I'm standing at his back when he does it.

"Umm… I'll go and get the cloths," I mutter.

I hear him snort as I leave the room. Where will I look when I return? I don't want him to think I'm staring at him, but if I see him naked, I'll find it difficult not to. I get embarrassed by nakedness. On Eigg we were a male-only community, but nakedness was not encouraged, except by those who practiced sex magic, and they were the older masters of fertility magic who were concerned with the fertility of the animals and the crop yields. Of course, I'd seen things whilst on Crusade, but it hadn't stopped me blushing, and the thought of seeing my master naked was alarming. I didn't think it was a good idea today, of all days.

I return with fresh cloths and strips of linen for packing and binding. I keep my eyes up, looking at Severus' face.

"Hurry up, it's cold as a witch's tit in here!" he snaps. It's a measure of his annoyance that he should use such a derogatory Muggle phrase.

I cleanse the wound with his wash. Despite its angry appearance it washes clean with little exudate. "I don't think it's infected, Severus," I tell him.

"Good," he replies. It might be brief, but it's encouraging.

"I'll pack the wound with salve and a pad, then bind it on," I tell him as I work.

He flinches a little as I introduce the salve between the wound's angry edges. I press a well-slathered pad of linen over the area, then begin binding it in place with linen strips. It's fiddly work as quite a length is needed to hold the pad in place. When I finish, he sighs.

"That does feel better."

I smile, really pleased. Severus isn't a man to make a fuss, I know, but this is a really deep wound, and spell-made. I would be happier still if I could see it start to heal.

***

That night I wake up again, my sleep is too pained to be anything but intermittent. I try not to move and disturb Harry. He's left one candle burning, and I'm glad of it, because when I turn my head the other way I can lie here and watch him as he sleeps; as he faces me.

A few minutes pass. It's not enough. Looking can only distract me so much. I reach out and touch his cheek, very gently. He doesn't stir. His cheek is so soft. At sixteen years old, he doesn't need to shave yet. So sweet, so innocent… my lip curls at thinking of such mawkish sentiments, but I continue to touch him, my hand tracking down to his shoulder.

He is strong and his skin is unblemished. I have kept him safe, unmarked, free of wounds. It is an achievement. Many of those returning from the Holy Land are scarred and maimed, and more do not return at all, being no more than rotting corpses by now. I still my movement, enjoying Harry's body heat as it seeps into my hand. This is so nice, but so dangerous. I've always kept separate and walled my emotions behind a stony visage, but having Harry living so close – damn it, even sleeping with me! – is undermining my safe practices. I have no choice but to let him get closer to me than anyone has since my childhood. Add to that the fact that he's an attractive young man, and I may well be doomed.

I run my hand down his arm, appreciating the toned muscles. Not over-built, like some of the archers, just nice. Harry isn't as tall as I am, though he's a few years yet in which to grow, but he's broader than me and I like feeling the differences in his body compared to my own.

Harry still doesn't move, and I'm grateful, because this is distracting me from the pain and I begin to feel a sense of peace come over me as I stroke him. This could become an addiction.

I breathe deeply. Harry's scent is male: musky and sweaty, but clean. Oh, that scent is a joy and I inhale again, feeling my head spin with the sensation of closeness. Harry stirs a little and I freeze, my heart beating a little faster, a little louder, as I wait to see if he'll settle again, or wake up. He would be embarrassed by my touching, I'm sure of it. I felt his reaction earlier when I dropped my braies: he gasped like a maid and tried to look everywhere except at me. It's foolish, of course. We're in close quarters for who knows how long, there is no room for false modesty. I've admitted to myself that we will get closer – with all its dangers – and Harry must soon realise the same. But for now, I will not embarrass him if I can help it, and if I'm in a good mood, of course. When I'm in pain, I'm not always so considerate.

Danger. I'm no stranger to that. Living so close to Harry is dangerous, because I know it will weaken me. He will weaken me by making me vulnerable and soft. I continue my stroking as Harry falls back into deep sleep; he was only moving a little in his dreams. My cock is rock-hard, pressing into the mattress. I undulate my hips as I touch him. It's a damned nuisance while I'm forced to be so inactive. I can't bend my back much without risking Harry's careful dressing and I groan softly in frustration.

Anticipating the temptation Harry represents, I added rue to the healing salve. Rue 'will turn off the light of Venus' according to the Arabic Potions Master, Ibn Botlan. I should have used a lot more, for my light is burning too brightly for comfort tonight. My thrusting becomes more urgent, and I know my back is in danger, but I cannot help it, I really can't. I groan again.

"Master?" Harry's sleep-fuddled voice interrupts my moans, and I stop as if I've been shot.

"Call me Severus, you foolish boy!" I snap, letting my sexual frustration seep into my tone of voice. My hand is still holding onto Harry's arm and I feel him shift a little under the grip, which has tightened without my noticing it.

"Can I do anything for you? Do you need a drink?" he asks, his voice quavering only a little. He's worlds braver than my previous assistants, who soon learned to run at the first sign of my rising temper.

"Oh, Merlin's nails!" I roar. "Get me a drink if you must!"

Harry scrambles up and makes for the garde-robe and the water-jug, and I'd feel bad for him if I didn't feel so fucking bad for myself. My aching cock is distracting me from my wound, it's true, but I don't know if it's much of an improvement. Can he do anything for me? Ha! He could put his warm, strong hand underneath my body and grasp my aching cock; he could pull and tug until I was relieved of this tension…

I bite the inside of my cheek, determined to regain control. He returns with a warm, spicy drink.

"What's this?" I ask, sniffing.

"Spices and herbs to help you sleep, mas... Severus. They've been left in the garde-robe and I heated the water with a wandless Fervefacio charm."

I grunt my thanks and drink, and it's pleasant and warming. It's thoughtful of him, especially after I snapped at him. But it's not what I want from him, my petulant libido insists.

Whatever's in the drink is effective, though. I do fall asleep again, and more soundly. I thought I'd be awake all night with the discomfort and the need. I will have to check the recipe tomorrow…

***

That was so strange.

I expected to be woken during the night, for Severus must still be in quite a bit of pain. But when I did wake up, his restlessness was nothing like I expected. It was a rhythmical thrusting, and that can only mean one thing.

As soon as he knew I was awake he stopped, and his bad temper is understandable. It's embarrassing for both of us.

On Eigg, I had no problem if I wanted to relieve myself. I had the privacy of my cell. Until we were put into this close confinement, my master and I have been able to take care of our needs in reasonable expectation of not being disturbed. But now, it's all different. Finding Severus humping the mattress made me wonder when I'll be able to wank. Well, it's more urgent than that if I'm honest; the knowledge of what he was doing made me hard, instantly. I got up to fetch him a drink, and in the privacy of the garde-robe relieved myself very quickly, banishing the evidence with a wandless ' Scourgify '. I suppose that's what I'll have to do from now on. I just hope he doesn't catch me doing it.

I must say I was surprised that Severus was feeling that way. I would have expected the pain to distract him from his sexual needs. Perhaps he has a high libido. I'd always thought older men weren't bothered so much, and I had no idea Severus indulged in anything at all.

This whole damned situation is so odd. I was surprised and pleased to be able to share the bed – it's a damn sight more comfortable than the couch would have been – but this development is a definite drawback.

Severus makes me embarrassed quite often. First when he is naked, and then when he keeps looking at me out of the side of his eyes. He does that a lot, I've noticed, but sometimes I don't even think he's aware of it himself. I've been making sure I get changed in the garde-robe, because I know I'd blush if he saw me naked, even though he doesn't seem too worried about hiding his own body. Though that may be just because he's injured and desperate to get me to help him…

It's all so confusing. I never imagined this would happen. Well, I could have had no idea because we'd been living quite separately. Does Severus keep looking at me? Yes, definitely. What does it mean, if anything? That's the question that bothers me, and I'm nervous about admitting what I'm beginning to suspect.

I keep remembering Guy's tales of how the king is with him. He said when he was first taken into Richard's service the king used to sneak looks at him all the time. And the king used to find reasons to be naked quite often too. And the king got aroused, a lot.

That's what's happening with us. Does it mean that Severus wants me in the same way the king wants Guy? Or would all men behave like this in close quarters? Perhaps it's just because there are no women available.

There was that moment when Severus was holding my hands, and Jacob Reiter came in and stared at us. He gave us a look that could only be called 'knowing'. And made some comment or other… is that what he thinks, when Severus says he keeps pushing him? That Severus and I are like Richard and Guy?

It takes much longer for me to get back to sleep than it took Severus. Next time, I'll make myself a cup of the herbal drink as well – it seems to work.

Over breakfast next morning – bread, butter, fruit and cheese, with small beer to drink – I decide to try and find out a bit more about my master. I've never really thought about Severus' sexual preferences, he's always kept himself aloof, but he does have them, obviously.

"Severus, what do the Austrians think of our king?"

"Duke Leopold knows our king is a braver, more able military leader. Richard is charismatic, both to our own side and he even impressed the Infidels, who know a good leader when they see one."

That's not exactly what I'm getting at, so I try again.

"Umm, but what do they think about him personally. Especially while he's imprisoned here with Guy…"

Now he understands. His face becomes serious and he frowns slightly.

"The king is the king. He can behave beyond the boundaries set for common men. It is true there is gossip, but few would dare to speak of it around us, or in the king's hearing."

"Reiter seems suspicious, and disapproving," I add.

"As a wizard, I doubt he disapproves. Not about Richard's choice of bed partner, anyway. He merely uses it as a chance to denigrate our master. He is loyal to Leopold. And you and I know that it's a particular taboo for Christians and dangerous behaviour for anyone not in the king's position of power. Whether Reiter is a Christian or pays lip-service to the religion, I cannot say. But he is certainly Leopold's sycophant."

I decide to be a bit more specific, now we're talking about what I'm interested in. "What do you think of the situation with the king?"

Severus stops eating and looks across at me, staring intently into my eyes. "Richard is a great king. As long as he doesn't start buggering Guy in public, he will be fine. It is not unusual for great military leaders to be close to one or more of their soldiers. Think of Alexander the Great and Hephaistion, or Achilles and Patroclus. Men can share their experiences with each other far better than with the ladies of the court. Despite the Church's proscription, this is understood."

"Do you understand his desire then?" I know I'm being direct now, and I blush as I ask it, and almost expect him to sneer at me for blushing like a maid.

"Harry… I –" he begins. Then he gets up abruptly and turns away, and then starts pacing the length of the room.

It's my fault he's upset. I feel his agitation and try to say something to calm him: "I can't see anything wrong. On Eigg it was accepted that people chose their partners because of who they got along with best in the world, whether that was someone of the same sex or not. I don't understand Muggles, and especially these Christian writings. You have to have rules, but surely rules about cruelty, and violence, and faithfulness. Not this hatred of people's loved ones."

' You shall not lie with a man as with a woman; such thing is an abomination ,' Severus quotes. "It's what they believe, it's written in their Bible. To Muggles it is the Word of God. Going against that is a sin. We live amongst them, and we must be aware of their views, even if we disagree."

' You shall be faithful to your lover, and care each for the other, ' I quote the words of Merlin back at him. "That's what's important, Severus. I don't understand why they are so upset over the whole thing." I shake my head in genuine mystification and sorrow.

Severus comes back and sits at the table. He looks like he's debating what to say to me. I continue my breakfast, sinking my teeth into a ripe fig with care to avoid losing the seeds down my tunic.

"Of course I agree with Merlin. His thoughts are enlightened and humane. And obviously right, to anyone with half a brain."

"So… do you prefer men?" My voice shakes with uncertainty, and I half expect him to tell me to mind my own business, and he doesn't reply for the longest time, staring at his half-empty plate.

"I always have," he whispers quietly, so that I would have missed it if it weren't for my total stillness while awaiting his answer. He seems sad, as if he expects me to recoil, or say something scathing.

I reach my hand across the table and cover his where it rests next to his plate. A gesture of solidarity and understanding, which I hope he'll accept. He sighs deeply. I just wish I knew how to treat him. He's been different since we were shut in here: far easier to get close to than he was before, as if he's accepted that this situation calls for a change in behaviour between us. But I'm still nervous about being too familiar, remembering his angry outbursts when I first served him and his obvious preference for solitude.

We finish our meal, neither of us eating much more. I take the remains of the meal and put them onto the shelves, in case Severus gets hungry a little later, though so far there's been no shortage of freshly-provided food. I think my questions have upset him in some way. Perhaps he's worried that I'll reject his company now he's admitted he prefers men. I don't feel threatened by that, do I?

I bustle around getting the supplies ready to redress his wound. Severus notices and asks: "Will you try casting Adjungo again? You need to practice and it can only help."

"Of course, Severus. I hope I get better at it quickly, I'd like to see the wound starting to heal."

"No more than I would, I assure you," he says. He gets up and takes his robe off and I hurry with the wash and salve because it's chilly in here this morning, and surely that's the only reason I want to cover him up again so quickly.

I unwrap the bandage to reveal the thick salve-covered pad. I put the bandage to one side and gently lift the pad. It's stuck in the centre and I get a cloth soaked in the cleansing wash to gradually lift it from the wound.

Although Severus makes no sound, he flinches in reaction as the pad pulls away. I cleanse the wound, which is still swollen and angry-looking, the edges are gaping and wet. I hiss through my teeth: I'd hoped to see it looking cooler and less raised as a first step towards healing.

"No better, then?"

"No, master," I admit.

"Severus!" he growls.

I begin wiping the exudate away.

"If you're going to clean it, clean it! Don't dab at it like an infant!" he snaps again. His bad temper tells me how painful the wound is, even if he won't admit it in words.

I decide he's probably right. The wound needs cleaning, and it just prolongs it to be tentative. I wipe the old salve from the inside of the wound. Severus does groan a bit at that, and I admire his control, because it must hurt like Hell. Once satisfied it's as clean as it's going to be for now, I apply fresh healing salve, and its green smell is pleasant after the scent of the old salve and wound exudate. I apply a new covering pad coated with more salve, then begin the binding again. Severus lets out a deep sigh.

"That feels better, Harry. Thank you."

I'm surprised to hear his thanks, and I nod my reply. Once finished I help him on with his robe again, taking care not to touch his flesh, and strangely relieved when his pale chest is no longer revealed. He strides over to the narrow window, to look out and probably try to distract himself from the pain in his back. I clear away quietly; relieved that's done for a little while.

"I think I should recheck it tonight, Severus," I tell him when I return.

He nods, but says nothing. Only the whiteness of his knuckles as he grips the window-sill tells of his worry and the pain he feels.

"Cowardly bastards!" I say in frustration. "If you hadn't been wounded from behind, you could have cast your own healing spells."

He says nothing. I shake my head and go and sit at the table, wondering how we're going to occupy ourselves in here for weeks, or months, or – Merlin forbid – years.

At least something positive happens on that front, for soon afterwards the door opens and the imposing figure of the older wizard, Astyanax Hoffman, enters.

"Freiherr Snape," he greets my master, who turned to look when the door opened.

Severus nods in greeting, but says nothing, waiting.

"You men need exercise, or you will not be in good condition once the ransom is paid. I have set up a warded anti-Apparition area for you and your… servant."

His eyes flick across to me; it's the first time he's acknowledged my presence. Severus frowns, but still he says nothing, not responding to this latest insinuation. Now I can understand what these men mean when they keep making innuendoes about me.

"Come," Hoffman bids.

I go over to Severus and ask him quietly if he needs support. He frowns at me and shakes his head, but still says not one word to me. We follow Hoffman as he turns and leaves the room. As we walk along the passageway I become aware that two other men are following. I glance at them and recognise them from the capture. Hit wizards.

Severus walks quite slowly, and I think it's so that he can control himself and not limp or lurch from the wound's effects. I sense it's important not to let these men know his weakness, so I walk even more slowly, trying to look stately. I earn myself a poke in the spine with the wand of one of the following wizards, and match Severus' pace from then on.

We are herded down three flights of stairs and along another passageway, to an oak door. Hoffman hands us a cloak each, then speaks an Alohomora and the door swings open, allowing us outside into an extensive walled garden. The air is chill, the sky grey, but it's a most pleasant sight for all that.

There are rose beds among a broad grassed area. It would be beautiful in spring and summer, even in autumn, but now at the turn of the year the plants are mere sticks, leafless and sorry for themselves. But the freedom of being outside, surrounded by the fresh air of Austria, is still wonderful.

"The area is totally warded, sealed off from outside influence. You cannot leave, no-one can enter, and all magic is dampened in here. We will be back in one hour. Make the most of your time."

The three wizards leave us and the oak door swings shut with an ominous thud. I look up apprehensively at the grey, leaden sky. I try not to think of snow, but the threat is definitely there.

***

It is wonderful to be outside. Harry is looking a bit concerned, Merlin knows why. He's like an old woman around me. My own Grammer Matilda wouldn't have been worse, I'm sure. It's touching in a way, because this young man really seems to care about me.

"Let's explore our outside kingdom," I say, and start walking.

Harry keeps pace with me, even though I know I'm slow, and lurch off a straight line from time to time. I don't mind that now it's just Harry to see. After a while, he timorously takes my arm, and I'm glad of the support. If it were anyone else I'd swear at them, but I don't need to do that with Harry. It's odd feeling that way. I hate to show any human weakness in front of anyone. So why do I allow Harry to see the real me sometimes? I know I'm frowning in perplexity.

"Severus," he interrupts.

I jerk my head sideways and meet his concerned green gaze. "Yes?"

"I fear it may snow," he says.

I nod. If it snows, it snows. "How are you with shielding and warming charms?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I've not tried. I've not often used wandless magic until we were captured."

I snort. It never ceases to amaze me that wizards are oblivious to the dependence they have on their wands. If only Harry had learned more about wandless spells before now. Of course, I should have shown him some myself, or insisted he practised. But such thoughts are pointless…

Despite my physical weakness, which is deeper than I want to admit, I wave my arm and mutter a Foveo charm. The air around us warms appreciably.

" Foveo ?" Harry asks. I nod and show him the hand movement.

"I'll try next time," he insists.

We walk on. The garden seems to be wrapped around the outside of the landward part of the castle. As we approach, we can see that it continues around the corner.

"Oh!" Harry gasps.

Indeed. The lawn on this side leads to an outdoor pavilion. In summer perhaps the court ladies come here to watch games or exercises of some sort; hawking, maybe, or dog racing.

"We won't get wet then, Severus," Harry says happily, pointing at the shelter.

"Providing the roof is sound," I mutter.

Harry rolls his eyes and grabs my hand. "Oh, don't be such a pessimist! It looks fine."

"Hmmph. Looks can be deceptive, boy," I add, still grousing, though I'm only going through the motions. His natural cheerfulness is alarmingly catchy. "Go and examine it," I suggest, pointing.

He scrambles off at a jog and I see him go into the pavilion. I still haven't reached it when he comes outside again and runs to meet me. "It's brilliant! There's couches and chairs and beds and everything. Even if there is a blizzard we'll be all right. There's wine and goblets in there as well."

He's grabbed my hand again in his enthusiasm. It was this behaviour that made me shout at him when I first met him. He wants to draw me along with him, but I try to keep my distance. I watch him slow himself down to walk the final few yards with me.

The outside of the pavilion has a covered area with seating for people to look out over the grassed area. Inside I soon appreciate the seating arrangements and sit on a soft couch. Harry comes and sits beside me.

"This is great. What do you think they do here?"

"Probably sports or something similar in the summer-time. I imagine the castle ladies would sit in here, perhaps with their children, to avoid the darkening effects of the sunlight."

"I don't suppose they'll let us do that then, Severus."

"No, I don't think they'll arrange entertainments for us." I can't help smiling at him. There's something sunny about Harry, optimistic. He bounces on the couch.

"D'you want some wine? Or shall we walk a bit more?"

"You go and walk, explore a bit. I'll sit and have a cup of wine."

He pours me a goblet-full and leaves me to myself for a while. He needs the exercise – he's young and full of energy. I am stiff and sore and glad to rest a little. I feel as old as Methuselah next to him. Harry returns just before our exercise hour ends. As we sit together, Hoffman's voice calls from out of the air: "Time's up, gentlemen. Make your way to the door."

We emerge from the summer pavilion and walk back to the door we came in through. Thankfully, it is still not snowing, though the sky remains leaden. As we approach, the door swings open and the three wizards are there to remove our cloaks and escort us back to our rooms.

After being outside, the rooms look smaller and darker. Harry looks at me, and even his cheerful face has a sombre look now.

***

I really loved it, going outside like that. But it's made it worse to be shut in again. I try not to let Severus know it's affecting me. He's got enough to deal with, with his wound. He doesn't need me moping about like a man who lost his wages through the seam in his pouch.

The rest of the day and the evening seem to pass by like years, instead of hours. I sit by the arrow-slit window and look out at the landscape beyond the sheer gorge we're perched over. The air chills my face, but I'd rather put up with that and be able to see into the distance. It makes me feel less enclosed than just looking at the stone walls that surround us.

I hear snatches of conversation, voices drifting on the wind from other parts of the castle: Ho! Tom! Wait for me! 'Tilda, get that hen! You wretched boy, I'll beat you black and blue! and other such gems that I manage to make out. My knowledge of their language is minimal, but the voices are those of servants and children, and not hard to understand. Later, in the early evening, I hear snatches of song. A sad male voice is singing a haunting French song.

"That sounds like the king," Severus says. He'd come to stand behind me without my noticing, for the haunting song had enchanted me. "He loves music second only to the military arts. And God, of course." Severus underlines his opinion with an elegant snort, which is his frequent response to mention of the Muggle religion.

"Guy says his lord writes songs," I add.

"Yes. He has a surprisingly poetic side to his nature. His favourite trouvère, Blondel de Nesle, writes with him. He has a lovely voice."

"Yes, that voice is beautiful," I agree.

Severus puts his hand on my shoulder. "Not that voice, that is the king. I meant Blondel has a lovely voice – like an angel." Severus' hand squeezes my shoulder.

I continue sitting by the window, with Severus standing beside me, his hand still holding my shoulder, while the song repeats its delightful, slightly mournful refrain.

"The pain of love…" Severus muses quietly.

After we go to bed, Severus settles really well. I think he's getting more comfortable now he has a dressing. The wound looked a little better this evening too, and even though there was no sign of closure yet, it looked less angry. I wish I could drift off like he has. Instead, I lie here staring into the dark room. As usual now I left one candle alight and it creates flickering shadows while dispelling little of the darkness. The air is cold. Tomorrow I will try and remember to ask for the heavy curtains Severus mentioned.

Severus' breath is even and I can hear it rasping through his considerable nose. His head is turned to face me. I spend a while looking at him. He looks calmer in sleep tonight, and in the near-darkness his face looks younger. Really, he's not old at all. I always thought of him as older than this, because he was my master, and stern, but now I consider the matter, I don't think he's out of his thirties. A young man still, especially for a wizard. Young, powerful, and in his prime. The thought makes me shiver at the acknowledgement of his sheer strength of presence. I swallow and look away.

I can feel him there on the bed next to me. I'm not touching him – I daren't think of doing that – but the heat of his body tells me he's there. The sound of his breath, the herbal smell of the wound dressing, all these things remind me of his closeness and won't let me ignore him. I wonder if he lies there during his periods of wakefulness, watching and thinking about me, as I'm doing about him tonight. And he prefers men…

Oh, I wish I wasn't here. This is all so difficult. I was on my way home, we all were. I signed up to serve Lord Snape on Crusade and my service would have been fulfilled. I could have gone peacefully back to Eigg.

The images of the island, the low monastic buildings, the memories of the faces of my brothers, the animals I helped old Peter tend… A parade of sweet memories marches in front of my eyes and I feel a lump forming in my throat. We were so close I could almost smell the land of Britain. No more sweltering heat, no more biting flies, no more wailing Infidels or yammering beggars. No more dysentery, no more sickness in camp, no more watching young men dying in filth and agony. Yes, I saw adventure, I saw the world, and I learned that routine – even boredom – has much to recommend it.

My sobs hitch and I try to keep quiet. How long will we sit here, locked in this prison? Our lives are short – all human life is too short – and we are wasting them locked inside a stone room.

"Harry?"

Fuck it! I've woken Severus, and he'll be right to shout at me. He was sleeping peacefully for once, and I have to start blubbing like the milksop girl he often accuses me of being.

Severus' hand reaches out and touches me. "Come here."

It's a command, and I scoot across to be held in his arm. It's awkward with him lying on his front, but I'm surprised and grateful for the contact.

"Sweet Harry, all will be well," he murmurs, his hand stroking my back. I adjust my position so my own arm is around his shoulders, allowing him to get closer to me without straining his back. "We will go home," he insists.

My reply is no more than a sniffle – Merlin, I'm pathetic!

His head moves close to me and his lips ghost over my forehead. "I swear we will go home, together," he whispers. "A wizard's word on it, Harry."

I nod, my tears ending at the assurance that brings. A wizard's word is not said lightly.

"Together, Harry, if you wish it," he says. "You're the best clerk I've ever had, and I'd like you to stay in my service, if you will. I'd like you to be my assistant in all things, not just my clerk. Will you think about it?"

I swallow, and I become so aware of the warmth of his shoulders under my arm. He wants me to be his assistant? I feel ridiculously proud, for nobody else has ever come up to his standards before.

"I… I don't know," I admit. "I was going to go back to Eigg."

I feel him nod. "Whatever you want, of course." Severus' voice sounds a bit hoarse, no doubt a result of being woken in the middle of the night. "But I would like you to be with me, Harry. I've never got close to anyone like this before." His voice trails off into silence, but his arm around me continues to hold me, and his hand strokes my back soothingly.

I shift a little, wondering at his touch. As if he feels my thoughts, he whispers: "It is good for us to touch, Harry. It will make the intimate contact of deep Healing easier to achieve, and will help with the alignment of our magic."

I nod into the darkness. That makes sense and gives me enough reason to lie here and allow the touch, and to stroke Severus' shoulders in return. It's nice – really comforting to be so close to him, to be touching him, and there's nothing wrong in it. We are both free, and he is my master, and I know that a few of my friends touch their masters, and get touched by them in return. I relax by Severus' side, his repetitive stroking is calming me, overcoming my foolish fears. My tears have dried on my cheeks; my breathing is back to normal.

Severus' lips ghost over my forehead again. I press a little closer to him, just to let him know it's okay, I'm not feeling so bad any more.

***

Now I'm lost. I haven't admitted it openly yet, but it's only a matter of time.

Harry is lying here in my embrace. He's letting me stroke him and kiss him. Even though the strokes are through his shirt, and the kisses are chaste pecks on his forehead, nevertheless that's what we're doing. And he's relaxed and seems happy with this; I won't be able to stop the process now.

I've asked him to stay with me. I'm worried that he hasn't said 'yes' right away, but nor has he rejected the suggestion. Maybe he's just being diplomatic, not wanting to turn me down outright.

I'm fairly sure he doesn't know how aroused I am again. My hard cock is pressing into the mattress once more, and the closeness of this young man is making it worse all the time. But, short of presenting him with my arousal, there is nothing I can do about it, except try to ignore it until he falls asleep.

My back is sore, but much less than last night, and not enough to distract my thoughts from the sudden urgency of my body's reaction to Harry . When did I decide he was the most important thing to me? When we were shut in here, in close quarters, I suppose. I knew if he got close to me that much more would follow, I could sense it. I'd resisted it throughout our journey. But once we were condemned to this existence, it was inevitable. As sure as the sunrise.

Ibn Botlan's rue cure for arousal doesn't work. Maybe I shouldn't have used marigold in the salve? There are those who use it in aphrodisiacs, though I've never believed it effective. Maybe in this combination, for once, it works?

Harry shifts a little as he gives way to his tiredness. I move my arm to accommodate him, but don't let him go. This is too nice. I won't relinquish it unless he insists.

He doesn't. Soon he's asleep, and I settle beside him, deeply inhaling his scent as I move my face next to his. I'm still aware of the hardness of my cock wedged between the mattress and my belly. I let my hand rise and find his hair. I love his hair. It's gloriously tousled, like a tumbled thistle head, whether he's recently combed it or not. And it's nearly as soft as thistledown, thick and soft and just right in my hand. I find myself drifting into sleep with my Harry in my embrace. Because that's how I'm starting to think of him, as my Harry.

***

I wake up next morning feeling warm and comfortable, and comforted. I must have slept well the rest of the night. I look across at Severus, and he's still asleep, so I'm glad he found peace and restful sleep too.

I get up carefully, determined not to disturb him, and go into the garde-robe to use it and wake myself up fully by having a wash. The air is cold – well, if I'm honest, it's bloody freezing – and I move as quickly and efficiently as I can. I dip my finger into the bowl of water, and it feels only one step away from ice, so I cast a wandless Fervefacio and it becomes lukewarm, which is a relief. I wash my hands and face, then dampen a cloth to use as a flannel, drop my braies and wash my private parts.

Refreshed, I return to the bedroom and put my undershirt and robe back on, glad to be able to warm up. I check that Severus is still asleep before returning to the garde-robe to make us both a hot herbal tea. When I go back into the bedroom carrying the goblets, Severus opens his eyes.

"That smells good."

I put my cup on the table and take Severus' over to the bed. He kneels up and accepts the cup, the sheet falling around his waist. He shivers a little in the cold air, and his nipples stand out from his scattered chest-hair like knots in wood. I have difficulty looking away, for the sight draws me. He drains his cup and returns it to me.

"Drink yours, before it cools," he says, sounding amused.

I turn and do so, and meanwhile he gets up and goes into the garde-robe. What must he think of me? I've been staring at him like a maiden girl fresh out of a nunnery – again, and he noticed.

Breakfast arrives as Severus returns, refreshed and dressed in a clean robe. He asks the guard to get us a curtain for the window. "Duke Leopold won't get good money for a pair of icicles," he growls.

The guard – not the soul of wit – merely grunts and slams the door shut as he leaves.

"When you clean the wound I want you try Adjungo on me, Harry."

"All right," I agree. "I've been practising the movements and I've been using wandless magic since we've been here. I just hope it's enough."

So I find myself cleaning Severus' wound again. It still gapes, but looks clean enough and smells freshly of the healing salve. There is no sign of putrefaction, for which I thank Merlin most sincerely. Once I've cleaned the old salve away, and can see the reality of the parted flesh, deep and terribly sore-looking, I ask Severus to lay face-down on the bed. In order to try Adjungo I want him horizontal, and still.

"You must lie still, Severus," I instruct. He merely nods.

I begin the spell-casting, weaving my hands in the complex motions of this deep healing spell. It's very different in feel from the magic I'm used to. " Adjungo ," I whisper.

Nothing seems to happen and I sigh with frustration.

"You need to feel my magic, get inside me," Severus instructs. "You must bring your healing force into line with my own magical field."

I frown in frustration, not quite sure what he means. "I don't know how," I admit plaintively.

"Put your hands on my back, feel the flow of magic through my body…"

I do as instructed. I can feel something, but 'flow' isn't quite it. "I can't feel it very well," I mutter, frustrated that I can't do what he's asking of me.

"You need to be comfortable handling a patient's body and getting close to their magic. I sense some reticence in you, some barrier. Is it because of how you were taught on Eigg?"

"I don't know, Severus. I never learned Healing."

"Were you allowed to touch each other?"

My face flames. Surely he doesn't mean what I think he means? "Umm…"

Severus pushes himself into a kneeling position and looks into my eyes. "Harry, you're so reticent. I know you're a virgin, but you need to be comfortable touching me, just putting your hands on my flesh. I thought you were making progress after last night."

That does it, my face is a beacon now, flaming as red as the sunrise. He reaches out a hand and strokes my cheek.

"I'm going to lie down again, and I want you to spend a while just touching me, getting more comfortable. The spell has no chance to link to me if you're feeling so embarrassed. I won't bite, you know." I can hear an edge of impatience behind his words, which I cannot blame him for. I must be endlessly frustrating to him. He's spent time showing me the spell and its motions, and still I hang back.

I smile shakily and he lies down again. I look at his back: lean, pale, strong. It's no hardship to touch him and I hope he doesn't think I feel that way. It's just that, every time I touch him, it's so new to me. The feel of naked flesh isn't something I ever experienced on Eigg. Nakedness wasn't shameful; several of the brothers stripped down to their braies during manual tasks. And everyone stripped in the lavatorium, of course. But nobody actually touched me, nor I them.

I put my hands flat on his shoulder blades, feeling the texture of flesh, trying to get used to it, to make it run-of-the-mill, an everyday feeling. The warmth of his body seeps into my palms, and I feel my warmth flow back into him. Severus moans softly, apparently appreciating the touch.

I begin to massage his shoulders, at first little more than tentative rubs, but on being accepted and feeling his approval, I move my hands to stroke and trace his form with more confidence, more intimacy. As my hands move, I feel something beneath the pads of my fingers – a tingling. Severus' moan leads me to believe he feels it too. "That's more like it," he mutters.

I continue and I'm quite surprised by the build-up of heat where our flesh makes contact. It's very welcome on this cold day in January. I'm beginning to enjoy it.

"There's no hurry, Harry. Just take your time, do it for as long as you like." Severus sounds happy enough beneath the warmth and power of my hands. Perhaps I can do this, after all.

Time begins to slip away, becoming meaningless as my eyes follow the repetitive flow of my hands. I keep my attentions to the top of his shoulders and his arms where they're stretched out on the bed. I love the feel of his muscles – firm, wiry, not large like the archers' or swordsmen, but just strong enough for his craft. His paleness reminds me of a marble statue, like the ones some lords have in their castles, taken from Roman cities. But this flesh is yielding and warm, not hard and cold like the stone.

Severus' flesh almost glows, its paleness leaching into the surrounding air, forming an aura. Or maybe it is his personal, magical aura that I can see. I squint and it becomes more obvious. "I can see an aura," I tell him.

He nods. "Good, that's good, keep going." He's so relaxed his reply was little more than a mumble. I do keep moving, the movements smooth, and the feel of his skin familiar to me now. I seem to have lost the fear of touching him. I know now he won't object or shout, push me away or belittle me. He is very welcoming of my touch.

And suddenly I'm ready. The aura seems strong and my mind tells me to remove my hands from Severus' arms and put my hands over his wound. Not touching the damaged flesh, just hovering above. I begin to chant, and to weave the intricate spell-cast: " Adjungo…" I say as my hand twists thus. "Adjungo… Adjungo …"

Severus' flesh seems to move, to melt almost. I concentrate on the movements of my hands and the feel of the man beneath me, of his aura, his self, and I complete the dance of my hands, wrists and fingers, and speak a last, firmer " Adjungo !" on my final pass.

I let my hands drop to my sides and examine my work.

The wound has partly closed. The deep tissues seem knitted together, though the surface tissues still gape. But it's better than it was, I'm sure of it. I'll dress it now. "It looks tighter, Severus. Part of it has rejoined."

He nods. "It feels much better, Harry. It must have tired you to do that."

I have to agree. My arms feel quite achy, as if I've lifted heavy packages all morning, instead of just giving a massage and waving my arms about. "Yes, I feel knackered," I admit with a chuckle.

He laughs a little. "Healing is work. People don't always appreciate how casting magic can be so tiring. That's enough for today. You can do more tomorrow."

As I bind the salve-soaked pad into place over the wound and wind the bandage around his waist, I say: "We are running out of salve, Severus. Will they let us brew more?"

"I expect so; I'll get the guard to tell Reiter."

***

Reiter allows us down to the brewing room the next afternoon. The ingredients allowed are the same as before, and I decide to omit the marigold from the healing salve, on the off chance that it's the cause of my arousal. In my heart I know that Harry, and my attraction to him, is the real reason, and not the supposed aphrodisiac properties of Calendula . Still, I make the effort, and omit the suspect from the salve, which contains many other All-heal and Wound-heal plants, so it will hopefully not be too badly missed.

As the brewing gets underway, Reiter speaks up. He'd been standing with the guards, watching us. I wondered if he were suspicious of what we were brewing, but there is little opportunity for duplicity using such gentle healing herbs.

"Boy! I need your assistance to move some implements," he says, and gestures towards a door off the brewing room.

I look up. "He's my assistant, I need his help," I object.

"I've seen you brew this before. You have done the difficult part, you can manage without him," Reiter says.

It seems there's no choice and I watch as Harry reluctantly follows the Austrian wizard out through the door to the side room.

***

"I need your help with this cauldron, boy," Reiter snaps, pointing at a large iron cauldron placed at one side of the room, while closing the door with a shove of his other hand.

Why he needs me, instead of getting one of those brawny guards to help, I don't know, unless he doesn't trust us being left with just one guard in the other room. But he could have moved this cauldron at any time, surely. I go over to it. He follows.

"Grasp it there," he orders, pointing at part of the rim. I wonder why he doesn't just levitate it. It would take some power, being so large and heavy, but he's the Duke's Second Mage, so surely he should be able to do it. Mentally shrugging, I decide to go along with his instructions, not wanting to annoy the prickly man.

I have to bend down a little to put my hands on the lip. The cauldron doesn't have a carrying handle, which is unusual. I can feel him standing right behind me.

"Stay there, just like that," he says, his voice sounding harsh.

I expect him to walk round to the other side of the large vessel. I don't expect him to put his hands on my waist and push himself against me, but that's what he does. I jump like a scolded cat, and he growls: "Stand still, boy, like you do for your master."

He's aroused; I can feel the hardness beneath his robes sticking into my lower back. My eyes widen in shock. Merlin! His hands are moving over my body, sliding around and down to grasp my buttocks. I gasp out: "No! Leave me alone."

His hands don't retreat; they squeeze and knead my arse-cheeks. He shifts and his hardness – his cock – presses against the cleft of my buttocks. I know what that means, even if I am a clueless virgin. The thought of this man getting so close to me makes me feel sick and panicky. I brace myself against the heavy cauldron and push back against him, trying to shove him off. It seems he likes that, though, he chuckles and slips his arms around my waist, thrusting and grinding his hips and that stiffness at me. I feel his breath puffing over the side of my neck, it smells strongly of garlic and it's repulsive, just like the rest of him.

"I said no!" I yell, and at the same time release a surge of wandless power.

He lets go and yelps, jumping back. "Hard to get, are you, boy? I thought you'd be well-practiced by now. I'm no uglier than him, and I could be useful to you, make your life more comfortable here. Or harder, if you want it that way."

I turn and see that Reiter's face is twisted with anger, but no more so than my own. He's drawn his wand which he's pointing at me with a shaky hand.

"If you were the last man alive, I'd run off and find a witch!" I snarl, hardly recognising my own voice. "Leave me alone, if you know what's good for you."

I stand trembling with rage and fear. He could cast a binding spell, ward the room, cast Silencio , any number of things. My hair is standing on end with the force of the emotions flowing through me; my magic is dancing just beneath my skin, leaking out in flashes where I can't contain it. He looks at me now with something like horror and steps back. "That's right – keep moving. Get away from me," I snarl.

Reiter sneers. "You've just made a mistake, boy. Let me know when you change your mind. You will. But you'll have to pay extra when you do. And say nothing to him, or I'll be forced to shut him up… permanently."

He turns and leaves the room, going back to the brewing room. I pull my robes into order and smooth them down with trembling hands. I don't want Severus to know about this. I don't want him attacking Reiter or getting into trouble. He's injured and what he needs now is healing, not further fights.

When I return to the brewing room, Severus looks closely at me. I probably still look upset, so I cover myself by saying: "That was a heavy cauldron. He wanted it moved a bit." I'm still panting and flushed, which adds credence to the lie.

Severus nods, but looks across at Reiter, frowning. "I would appreciate it if you would not use my assistant as a common lackey," he says.

"You're in no position to tell me what to do, Snape," Reiter replies, sneering. "I'll use your boy as I see fit."

I tremble inwardly, hoping Severus doesn't notice. I know exactly what Reiter means, and I'm pretty sure Severus suspects that meaning, too, as his eyes narrow with suspicion and dislike. But nothing more is said to the Austrian wizard as we prepare fresh batches of cleansing wash and healing salve.

"We'll make some cosmetic salve as well, Harry. I have every confidence that I'll need it soon," Severus says quietly to me.

We have chickweed and goose grease, with peppermint leaves, which are very finely chopped and mixed together to make a simple cosmetic salve. Severus has his back to the other wizard, and incants his spells quietly and wandlessly. I cannot hear them, so Reiter certainly can't. As with all Potions Masters, Severus has his own personal spells that suit him.

We finish our three items and clear away before following the guards back to our rooms. I'm carrying pots of healing and cosmetic salve. Reiter will send the rest along when they've cooled, as he did before. I hope he won't tinker with them, but Severus is sure to know if he does.

***

Tonight I'm more comfortable in bed. My wound feels much better. But that means it's less of a distraction from the closeness of Harry lying in the bed alongside me. And less distraction from the heat of my persistent erection pressing into the mattress. I groan inwardly, determined not to wake Harry.

Harry turns over in his sleep. The bed undulates, my cock throbs. Damn the marigold to blazes! Except there's no marigold in this new salve, and lots more rue, which is still pointedly failing to 'dim the light of Venus'. I want to slip my hand underneath me and grasp my cock, but I remember that Harry woke up the last time I did, so I force myself to leave it alone.

Harry turns again, sighing. His sleep is restless tonight. Or maybe he's not really asleep. I squint closely at him, he's lying looking up at the ceiling now. In the dim light I decide his eyes are open.

"Harry?"

"Oh. I didn't mean to disturb you," he says, in a small, uneven voice.

"I'm not asleep," I reply. "Can't you sleep again?"

"No."

"Homesick?"

He sighs, then turns to face me. "No, not really. Just… I can't settle."

"I will take us home, Harry," I reaffirm.

"I know, Severus. And I want to go with you."

My heart jumps – does he mean he wants to stay with me afterwards, as I asked? Yet, there's an unspoken 'but' in there somewhere.

"But?" I prompt. He lets out another long, troubled sigh. Has something happened? "What's troubling you tonight?" I reach out and touch him, stroking his upper arm. I can hear his breath catch.

"It's nothing, nothing…"

"It's not 'nothing' if you cannot sleep. Something is obviously troubling you. If it's not homesickness…"

"It's not," he insists.

"… then something else has happened. Please tell me, Harry."

It must be the 'please' that does it. The dam breaks and a torrent of words flood out.

"Reiter tried to touch me… he says he'll have me, that I'll go to him because he'll make our life uncomfortable if I don't. He pushed up against me and he was… he was…"

I grasp Harry's arm in support. What's this? Reiter! That Austrian snake wanted my boy; I saw it in his eyes. What has he done?

"What did he do in that room?" I rasp, and my voice is harsh, though not against Harry.

"I repelled him, Severus, my magic rose up and he got a jolt from where he was touching me. I couldn't bear having him that close to me. He got me to hold onto the cauldron, he said we were going to move it, then he pinned me there, pushed himself against my back. Oh Merlin, Severus, his breath, his body – it made me sick."

I stroke his arm soothingly. No wonder he couldn't sleep. "Why didn't you tell me? I'd have gone to the king, or to Leopold."

"He told me to say nothing, that if I said anything he'd make our life difficult, even painful. I didn't want you to get hurt, you're hurt already."

"I'm your master, Harry, your protector. I'm responsible for you. It's for me to sort this out, and I will. That worm will regret touching my boy."

I can feel how upset he is by the energy trembling just beneath his skin. "Come here, Harry," I urge.

He shimmies across to lie closer to me and I encircle his shoulders with my right arm. I can feel him settling straight away, and I'm relieved. The last thing I want is for the inappropriate actions of that Austrian bastard to put my Harry off being touched by me. I'm moving slowly, so slowly with this, because I don't want to scare him. He hasn't thou