Camilon

It is a dreary day, raining gloomily under the heavy clouds that shade the earth beneath it a lifeless grey that Severus Snape pauses by a certain room, down the hall between the upstairs bathroom and his own bedroom.

It does not help that the house is unusually quiet—though it tends to be a more silent home when it’s occupants happen to be of the more quiet, studious types, and Severus had long been left behind by any neighbours that could remain in the area. He does not truly intend to pause, but it is of notice to him that the entrance is a little open where the others are closed; the sounds that he hears escape past the door sound an awful lot like humming, which is…rather joyous of the only person who might feasibly be using that room. 

“…”

He finds his footsteps faltering as he passes by. He was initially here to pick something up that he left upstairs, and the action of using an accio to retrieve the item seems…not quite wasteful, but a waste of his legs who were glued to the downstairs potion room, of which Severus can tell need the exercise every now and then. He is used to being forced to remain in a single spot for numerous hours at a time, but with the freedom of his own pursuits to find and the consistent sluggardness of time, doing something refreshing every now and then is appreciated by his mind, even if refreshing can be compared to getting up and picking something up from the upstairs, rather than spelling it to him. 

Severus finds himself at the crack of the open door, his body hiding behind the shadow of the room’s lamplight like a fiend in fear of the daylight. The man on the other side hums a song slowly under his breath…is that Celestina Warbeck he hears from the other man’s mouth?

He…finds that he doesn’t want to bother him. Undoubtedly he will cease humming, and whatever pleasant mood the man might be in will wilt as Severus comes to infringe on his workspace. The man is halfway through his twenties, and with him is a youthful countenance, if his continued singing is of any note. 

The singing pauses. Severus looks down, and finds that he has not stepped on a creaky board nor had accidentally touched the door. 

The room goes eerily silent, and it comes to him that this situation is far too familiar to him. His breaths are impossibly quiet, and his body leans towards the door as his hand reaches for his—this will not do. Before Percy can start hexing the door and right through it, Severus bites the bullet and knocks on the door, wincing at its volume.

“It is me, Percy. Lower your wand.” His voice is faintly hoarse, not to a concerning extent, but still far too much for what Severus rather wishes he says with instead. 

The door on the other side quiets once more. And when Severus thinks for a short moment that he’s going to hear the other man growl out a question to verify his identity, he chuckles, leaving Severus in pause. 

There are footsteps, and before Severus can even consider turning around to leave the door is swung open, and with errant strands of hair covering his eyes, glasses a smidge bit too loose on the nose, the visage of Percy Weasley-Prewett greets him with a goofy smile. 

“Hullo, Severus. How long have you been there, shadowing my door?”

The other man is in a very visibly good mood, and the tone of his words lean more on teasing rather than anything else, so Severus forces himself to relax and answer in kind. He resolutely doesn’t think about that moment that happened less than a minute ago. 

“Not for long, if you will believe it. I only meant to pass by this room, after all.”

Percy grins. “Am I not worth a visit, then? Don’t tense up like so, Severus, I was only joking.” Severus hadn’t been aware that he had in fact stiffened once more; Morgana forbid it take four years since the war to make him rusty. “Aren’t you busy with your projects downstairs? Something you forgot?”

“It’s good to stretch your legs every now and then, from what I gather.” Severus gestures towards the clock, because Percy is just as much of an offender in this particular violation as he is. He would hear it if Percy had come down for a quick snack, after all, and no one has entered the kitchen as far as he could surmise. 

Awfully giddy, Percy doesn’t do something as silly as laugh again, but his smile is amused to say the least. “Perhaps we should go on a walk—when the rain lets up a little, of course. I find myself missing the trails we used to take when we had traversed via mountains and forests before.”

The storm rolls on, as if to remind both Severus and Percy of its existence. Not that he had forgotten, but he turns anyway to regard the lone window in the hallway. It rattles with the winds, but it will hold. Severus had ensured that. 

“When the rain ceases, indeed.” The sound of it was rather enjoyable.

Percy shuffles, moving away from the entrance and holding the door open. “Since you’ve decided to grace me with your presence, allow me to show you what I’ve been working on.”

Severus walks in and the first thing he notices is that the lone desk in Percy’s room holds numerous amounts of notes and stray papers and photos, taped to the walls, pinned to a board, and strewn haphazardly around a leather bound journal. It does not take Severus a significant time to guess what it’s for, and what exactly Percy has been working on, but he approaches the desk to examine the scene closer, where the images of their exploits with the dementors greet him.

Severus’ hand hesitates over a polaroid photo, depicting the back of his own head, ducking under a branch in dimness with his lumos as the only source of light in the general area. “Is this for the study you’re planning to publish soon?”

If Percy was glowing with lackadaisical whimsy, now he was beaming brilliantly like the lamp on his desk. “It is, in fact!” Percy moves next to Severus, gesturing to the group of photos with dementors at the forefront. “There is an awful dearth of study on the soul, you see, and you know quite enough of how difficult it was for me to procure actual, genuine study on the properties of the soul. For something so integral to wizards and muggles alike, there’s a surprising lack of conclusive theories regarding the sense of self. I fear I’m basing a good amount of my study on personal experience, but luckily the freed dementors were kind enough to give me some much needed perspectives on the topic.”

Severus shakes his head, sighing. “How you communicate with the creatures so effectively, I will not fully understand.” It is easy to be humble when it comes to this particular topic, for Severus can truly conclude that Percy is the most learned of the two of them when it comes to the matter of the soul. He has heard of and even met a few of the many who have such unique experiences or understandings on such topics, but none can truly hold a candle to what Percy knows now. The concept of it is somewhat pleasing, though this thought is one that is more difficult to express.

“I would say it was a relationship only we could’ve received ourselves, Severus.” The rain patters on, and Percy is completely unreactive to the howling winds that threaten the windows, and only threaten. “We had greatly assisted in their dilemma, after all, I daresay that there might be very few wizards who could say the same thing right now.”

Severus concurs. “In that way, there is also a very few number of living wizards now that can contest to having significantly aided in ending the war. Not to mention a unique, one of a kind, special Order of M—”

“—Severus, I had hoped you wouldn’t mention that again!” Percy splutters, bumping Severus on the side with a faint guffaw that he cannot help but reciprocate, snickering as Percy complains that he will forever be singled out in the Ministry records; where Severus is one of the many names with an Order of Merlin, First Class, Percy’s name will remain steadfast and alone under a list that was begun four years ago. Percy Weasley-Prewett: Order of the Ministry.

It comes to Severus belatedly while in a debate—that can be described as friendly, though mostly because both Percy and Severus had come to the conclusion that targeting the other would only lead to another fight that would require them to make up sooner or later—that he had momentarily forgotten to return to his project downstairs. It was the whole reason he had arrived here himself, after all. The item he most undoubtedly had forgotten to retrieve was still waiting for him in his room, but all the older man can think about is how he would like to pick it up later, once this debate is over. Once he and Percy has had supper, because the night was fast approaching and Severus had lost track of time. 

When Severus mentions this, Percy perks up at the thought of cooking, and eager to continue where they left off, asks Severus if he can assist in the preparation. In the four years since Percy had lost his magic, the him of now is far more comfortable with his squib-like existence, though he continues to note the inconsistent longing that flashes through his face when magic is displayed before him. Severus flips to a random page in one of the cookbooks they had purchased years ago, and Percy acquiesces to the recommendation. 

“I have forgotten. Weren’t you supposed to pick something up on the way?”

“It is as you say, Percy. I can simply summon it to myself at a later time. Now, how shall we separate the workload for the recipe…?”