"I've kept all your pictures," he says. "All of them, see," and he shows Snape a scrapbook with each cutting arranged precisely, by date. Spreads from 'Witches Weekly', the one interview from 'Timeless' magazine. A monochromatic, unmoving Muggle photograph capturing the time Snape met their Queen for tea, in gratitude for his and Dumbledore's services in saving Britain. The man opens the book and the pages flip over excitedly, showing off their contents a little too fast. "See?" says the man excitedly. "See?"

"This is new," Snape agrees, touching the thick pages and watching them respond to his hands. The scrapbook is a diary of the last six months, some pages with neat rectangles pasted in alongside meticulous descriptions of the events they depict. Other leaves are bare of anything, accusing him quietly and starkly. Every day is numbered. Every day is meant to be a record of his life.

The last time they met, the man was making collages and terrible, loving artwork with his own hands, using finger-paints and coloured oils to substitute for the pictures Snape had never had the urge to take of himself. One of the better samples stands framed on the mantelpiece. Snape hasn't shuddered in a long time but he shudders now, unobtrusively. It's a strange feeling to see his impassive face on every page. He still isn't used to pictures. Isn't used to the fact that there are people who apparently want to commemorate him.

"There are a couple of new ones in Sorcerer's Digest but I haven't had time to get at those yet," the man rushes on, heedless, laying the book down carefully so he can pretend not to be wringing his hands. "They aren't very good though, you're somewhere in the second row of Aurors, so I thought those could wait. I had to clean the house first." His eyes flicker towards gleaming floors and curtains washed to an inch of their lives. "I cleaned the house and... your clothes, I forgot about your clothes, they smell of moth spells,"

"I have robes in my luggage," Snape says quietly, and the man nods.

"Yes, yes of course - luggage?" Faint hope lights his eyes, devouring and consuming them almost instantly. "You're staying?"

"For a while," Snape answers, wondering for a moment why he doesn't just say 'forever', which is or had been his intent. Forever. To stay forever in this sanctuary while the world outside healed from the gaps created by the war. The third war against Voldemort, what the Muggle Prime Minister in less than inspired word play refers to as World War III. But it is over now, the main body of it and the tiny aftershocks that ripple through the world can be taken care of by younger men and women. Time enough for him to sit down and have a decent cup of tea, even if the sight of this scrapbook awakens strange, not entirely pleasant sensations.

"Tea?" the man offers eagerly and Snape nods.

"Please."

"Right. I'll just... right." He bustles off and Snape closes his eyes a second, wondering if he can allow himself to fall asleep right here on this very comfortable couch that he's only spent twenty minutes on, since he bought it.

The book rustles invitingly, but soon settles down on the table. He leaves it there, not wanting to touch it.

Strange, really. The scrapbook, the entirely gauche artwork and the unstilted eagerness to please - these are the reasons he has kept the man, apart of course from Dumbledore's gentle understanding. But to hold against that are the times when bedraggled owls came to him in the metaphorical trenches and misspelled words formed of letters slanting crazily across the parchment became fingers that gripped his heart and squeezed, tight.

"He is my responsibility," Snape bit off in Dumbledore's face before his master could say anything, even hint at the fact that - no. Responsibility and that is all he will let the world know of their relationship. Responsibility and perhaps even a touch of pity. No more.

There are times he can even manage to fool himself.

All too soon the man returns with a laden tray. The best china, Snape notes, and thin ever-clean napkins surround plates of ginger biscuits and cakes with caraway seeds.

"You take milk, don't you? And sugar, two lumps," the man says, happily arranging himself on his knees, and beginning to pour.

Lemon actually, no milk and no sugar. But it's a cold grey afternoon and the wind moans like a werewolf torn from the breast of its mate and there have been times in the recent past that he'd have given his invisibility cloak for a hot cup of tea and the comfort of this little brick house. So Snape quirks his mouth into a passable imitation of a smile and thanks the man for remembering his preferences.

"You're very welcome," says the man, glancing flirtatiously from under long, golden lashes, flicking his hair back from his face. Snape smiles thinly and accepts the tea, cup rattling slightly in its saucer. The man has filled far too much tea in the vessel and Snape has to be careful not to spill.

Not enough milk and too much sugar. But it is warm and the first sip untangles the bundle of nerves in his throat. His shoulders ache and suddenly all he wants to do is to lie down.

"I'm getting better at things, you know," the man says confidentially, the sudden transformation to eager-hearted puppy disconcerting enough that Snape rattles the saucer. Thankfully he drank enough of the brew to prevent it spilling. There's nothing Snape hates more than a sloppy cup.

"Just yesterday I remembered a cleaning charm. You now have very white sheets."

He stocked the linen cupboard with Slytherin black and green before leaving last year, but Snape only asks, "I thought we had house elves?"

The man's eyes widen, glisten slightly at that 'we' and he stammers when he replies, "N-n-yes, yes we do, but I wanted to, when I got your owl. How's your tea?"

Snape takes another sip. The warmth is welcome, despite the milk and over-sweetness, so he tries another smile. "Delicious."

The man sits back on his heels, well pleased.

They take tea in that odd fashion, with the man on his knees, a comfortable cushion supporting him geisha fashion. He is content to look up at Snape seated on the couch, is assiduous in refilling Snape's plate and cup until Snape forgets and snaps that he can eat no more. Then there is the recoil and shattering of beautiful old china, the swallowed tears and working lump in the man's throat while Snape presses long fingers to his temple and massages for two seconds before recreating Wedgewood and trying for comfort in an edgy tone, saying, "No harm done now, come, dry your tears."

Albus help me, is Snape's plea at times like this. Albus, please, for the sake of your kindness to me, help me be gentle.

Gentle. It is not a function he often associates with himself, but perhaps then the man is good for him.

Indeed. So he's given up justifying his needs and wants to the world, but apparently his own tired conscience occasionally requires a sop.

The man is looking at him with all his heart in his eyes and Snape looks at the tray for a moment because it is easier. Finally says, "I'd like to put my things away."

The man jumps up. "Yes, of course, I forgot. You're staying. How long are you staying?"

"Forever," Snape says and it is worth it to see the incandescence the word brings to the man's pale, pale skin. Also, there is always the knowledge that the man will soon forget.

"Forever." The man says the word like he is tasting it. "I'll remember that. Forever."

No. It is far more likely that the man will forget, which is why Snape used the word. If, all evidence to the contrary, the man continued to remember, well then, forever is a promise Snape will have to keep. But there are some cruelties too great to be masked as kindness. The Fates cannot hate Gilderoy Lockhart that much.

A real smile tweaks at Snape's face. Indeed.

The man smiles at him in adoration, evidently believing the smile is meant for him. Evidence indeed that regardless of his insubstantial memory, he does exist in this world and will not fade away without having left some mark. Indeed.

Snape is tired of marks.

Blue eyes shine affection into his and Snape grimaces. He is currently not an affectionate man. He is tired, very, very tired and sleep is such a familiar stranger.

Blue eyes dim, glance away. Involuntarily Snape yawns, drawing attention back to himself.

The man runs a hand nervously through his hair, saying, "You're so tired, I should... I should take you up to bed."

Snape winces, even though he knows the man has no idea what he is saying. "That would be lovely," he returns, telling himself that he showed no untoward reaction to the phrase. He tells himself he should be very well comforted that the man who used to be Gilderoy Lockhart has no idea what it is he is saying.

"I'll take your bags up," the man looks around for them anxiously.

"The house elves already did," Snape says, starting up the stairs, the way familiar enough to him.

~*~

The bathroom is much the same as usual. The cream white tiles with a gentle cluster of violets emitting a strange, soothing scent; the quiet, sexless soap - all neutrality, a place where his senses can stop, calm down and cease to function. Snape takes a deep, shuddering breath, feeling the air weigh down on his chest, releasing it reluctantly when the need for oxygen grows too deep. As he exhales, his robes seem too light to be touching his body and he manages to take them off easily, not even minding when his fingers miss and touch his flesh by accident.

He stands naked, not looking at himself in the mirror. Just. Feeling.

Air on his skin, slowly deadening till it is only air and then not even that. He lets himself get accustomed to not having to judge the atmosphere by its weight and texture, to *not having to sift scent and smell and taste and random prickles of extra-sensory perception in order to judge the advance or retreat of a Death Eater corp. After six months of raw, bleeding, edged nervous living, this silence, this death of his senses is welcome. So very welcome.

Sometimes Snape thinks he would very much like to die. It's just that living has become a habit not easily overcome even by the poetry of the grave.

And then comes the knock on the door, the worried trying of the knob and the unsure,

"Hullo? Are you alright in there?" the nervous laugh. "It's just that I forgot to give you your towels."

There are soft white fleeces heaped on the floor near the tub; there are green facecloths and downy blue bath towels in the hidden cupboard below the sink. But Snape opens the door, standing behind it, holding just a hand out. Lockhart places a neatly folded stack in his palm, and Snape says thank you, intending to close the door quietly so as not to alarm.

A smooth white hand clutches at the frame and Snape cannot bring himself to slam the door shut on it. He's done enough of that, in the trenches.

"I'll be out in thirty minutes," he says, and after a sharp intake of breath, the hand is removed. They stand like that, separated by a door, and Snape can hear the other man breathing.

Small sounds, perhaps a laugh, perhaps a sob, and then feet pad away. Snape closes his eyes and imagines what the man is doing now. Sinking onto the mattress. Lying on his back, running his palms in wondering circles over the sheets. Kicking his heels in perhaps and laughing up at the ceiling with the unfeigned joy of a child.

Paradox on cruel paradox. The man in his bed, the child in his bed.

Snape steps into the tub and gestures for a cold shower.

"Thirty minutes," Lockhart says, when Snape steps out, clad only in a bathrobe. He smiles at the clock on the wall that is pointing towards 'A little late'. "See, I remembered."

"Indeed." And in a few seconds, the man will forget, so Snape turns to the cupboard, searching for his bed robes.

The house elves have unpacked, so they *are* still around. Good. For a while he'd been afraid the man might have gifted them clothes in a sudden frenzy of housekeeping zeal. That's the problem with memory charms. The effects are unspecific and random. But then Lockhart always was. He lies on the bed now, sheets in midnight black and jade green - almost Slytherin colours, reflecting strangely off his golden hair. His expression is hungry, open. Eager. And he doesn't even understand what it is he's projecting. Understanding would require a grasp of social skills and memory of etiquette. Lockhart never had the first and as for the second... well.

Indeed.

Snape takes his clothes and changes inside the bathroom, careful to lock it first. He stares at his body coldly in the long mirror, not touching it, not even punishing it, merely glaring it into submission. Despite his age and extreme tiredness, it is not an easy task. More residues of the war. The occasional priapus, like Muggle photographs and medals awarded by Witches' Weekly, is a hollow trophy.

The man is standing by the window when Snape comes out, and he says penitently, "I'm sorry. I forgot you don't like me sleeping in your bed."

He can be kind. Surely, for this one night, he can attempt to be kind.

Can't he?

Some cruelties are too great to be masked as kindness.

"Go to bed," Snape says, injecting artificial warmth into his tone. Lockhart looks mutinous, but when Snape turns away pointedly, the man complies. Which earns him a 'good night, sleep well', words far too trivial to earn such smiles.

When the man is gone, Snape darkens the room, flings the sheets off the bed and sinks down on it, feeling his body unfold like a house of cards collapsing. The mattress is heaven to his tired back and the front of his robes gape open, exposing just enough flesh to the cool air to make him ache. Slightly.

If this were a fantasy the door would open. The man would come back in. Lick his lips, like the child he once was contemplating a treat. If this were a fantasy, the man would be whole in mind and needy in body and Snape would have the exquisite privilege of throwing the man out on his arse.

But this is reality and in reality, Snape is too tired even to dream.

~*~

Reality wakes him up with warm nakedness snuggled against his chest, a heavy arm flung around his middle, hot breath stirring the little hairs behind his ears.

Snape does not tense.

Lockhart wriggles slightly, and Snape sees that his own arm has, in unconscious stupor, come around the man, drawing him close. Close enough that Lockhart gets the bright idea of bending down and blowing slightly, so that the hairs on Snape's forearm shiver in response.

Snape realises he must have made a sound of some sort because Lockhart looks up hesitantly.

A child's clumsy affection, no more. So Snape makes himself relax and soon Lockhart smiles tentatively, then cheekily, bending down to try blowing again, stirring old nerves before he places dry lips on the flesh. Snape just... holds, even as Lockhart rubs his cheek against the skin affectionately, moving back up to press their faces together in a chaste touch. He sighs slightly against Snape's mouth and snuggles closer, head drooping. Snape let him, he holds the man in his arms. Waiting.

For what he is resigned to coming next.

"I couldn't sleep," Lockhart says, confident now that he will not be thrown out of bed.

He can pretend to be a parent a while longer. "I suppose you can stay for a while."

Relieved, Lockhart moves closer. "Tell me again how you saved me from the basilisk. I've forgotten."

Indeed.

"I'll tell you," Snape says after a moment, "But then you must go back to your own bed."

The basilisk is part of Lockhart's favourite story and it is the one Snape tells the best. *Twists* the best, though of course there is some truth in it.

Lockhart is frowning. "Can't I just sleep with you?" then he winces, his voice becoming adult again, rueful. "I'm sorry, I forgot. You don't like me sleeping with you."

Snape waits, but the man apparently sees no contradiction in his words and their current position. Then again they're not actually sleeping. He decides he might as well tell the story.

"When the Heir of Slytherin took you, I went after you..." He loves this story. They both do. Lockhart because he doesn't remember it and Snape because that frees him to tell it. Anyhow. Anyway.

Anyway.

As he tells the story Snape has to try not to look at the man nearly underneath him. His eyes are so open. Snape cannot understand why. Sex should be the ultimate degradation to a man already violated by being open to him, known and so abused. Of course Lockhart doesn't remember enough to know he's being abused and some part of Snape is sick at the violation he does not seem to be able to stop perpetrating. There are some things even need cannot excuse as necessity, and in truth it is not Lockhart's body he wants as much as his adoration. His heart, mind and soul.

So if he has to work his way past the body...

"... and then you plunged Salazar's sword into the basilisk's heart and I woke up."

"Indeed you did."

"I don't remember."

"It doesn't matter."

"Are you sure?"

"I will never let harm come to you," Snape answers simply enough, then curses himself when the man breathes, "Forever," a smile curving his lips.

"I forgot you said you'd stay forever. But I remember that now..."

His words trail off into a sleepy yawn. Snape's grip tightens a moment. Forever. Yes, that will hold true for a day, perhaps, or two days, maybe a week, before the exigencies of the charm force them both to forget. But for now let him sleep, held in his hero's arms, and the semantics of the situation are defeating him, especially since he was already so tired.

Tell me a story, Lockhart asked him and one day Snape thinks it might be a cruel, safe joke to tell him the one of the man who received his heart's desire. Because once upon a time the situation was reversed. The posters and scrapbooks and pictures that were cut out and hoarded were of Gilderoy Lockhart, veteran of Yeti fights and Vampire revels, a man, who to a youngish Severus Snape had been a hero. A true proponent of the Defence against Dark Arts.

To a very young Severus Snape. Lockhart-who-never-really-was, had been, a hero. The semantics of this situation are beginning to exhaust him again and Snape was already so tired.

Lockhart nudges his calf with a well-aimed toe. "What was that for?" Snape asks.

"I remembered something else," Lockhart replies.

"What?"

"I love you, you know. Forever."

And in three days time? But Snape only says, "Thank you," calmly, almost politely, trying to ignore the fact that Lockhart is moving back up to kiss his cheek. And as he returns the kiss, slowly, painfully, Snape tries not to admit to himself that this is one thing he really does not want Lockhart to forget.

~ End.