The Hogwarts Express flew through the misty countryside, the swaying motion long ago putting the lone occupants of the compartment to sleep. Reminiscent of a pieta, the dark-haired wizard was propped up in a corner against the edge of the window, his head hanging forward, his long black hair almost touching the spectacled face of the man in his lap.
They were on their way back to Hogwarts, to darken its doors for the first time in nearly two decades, despite Harry's frequent intentions to visit, always thwarted for some reason or another. Minerva had invited both of them, and as neither of them, due to circumstances that had played out in the interim, worried much these days about recognition or repercussions, they'd decided to make the trip and revisit where it'd all begun, or ended, depending on one's point of view.
When the door to the compartment was violently thrown open, they both startled, Harry sitting up suddenly, while Snape shook his head, then rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.
"Oh. Sorry…I was looking for…." The child stopped, terrified by the glare of one wizard and the fact that they were strangers on the train. Slamming the compartment door, hard enough to make Snape wince and cause Harry to smile, the child was gone.
"If that wasn't the spawn of a Weasley, then I'm a Crumple-Horned Snorkack," Snape muttered as he rubbed his forehead.
"Yeah, you're right, he was." Harry propped his chin atop Snape's shoulder, then ran his fingers along the line of the man's nose. "We have hours to go yet. What would you like to do?"
With a lazy flick of Snape's hand, the blinds snapped shut and the bolt in the lock slid home. He smiled for a moment, then turned his head to speak the words against Harry's lips. "I have an idea…" he said as he slipped his hand to the front of Harry's trousers. "Are you game?"
Harry groaned as he caught the hand and pressed it against himself. "I'm game."
FIN
Credits:
1. 'The Abyss', poem by Charles Baudelaire 2. 'Hollow to a Kindred Spirit', original poem by the author.