Horace Slughorn was watching moss grow. Or, rather, he was looking at the moss which grew on the underside of the branch beneath which he was lying. He supposed he hadn't been there long enough to watch it grow, but to be truly honest, he had lost all track of time.

 

He and Leonide were in a clearing they had discovered a few weeks earlier in the Forbidden Forest. At the moment, the comfortable glade was pleasantly sun-dappled, quite the perfect setting for a midday rendezvous, just at the beginning of summer. It was the middle of June. The students were all revising for their final exams, and Horace and Leonide were relaxing before the hectic end-of-term marking period.

 

Horace was reclining with his head in Leonide's lap, listening as he read him poetry. This was a habit Leonide had picked up over long winter nights. Often, Horace found himself bored to tears, especially when Leonide read in French, or even worse, when he read in Old Norse, but he had learned to just listen to Leonide's marvelous voice and not worry about the subject matter.

 

This particular poem was by a Muggle called Victor Hugo, and though Horace could make neither heads nor tails of what it meant, not knowing very much French, Leonide seemed to be under the impression that the poem was about him.

 

"It is called A Propos D'Horace," Leonide had told him. After a few seconds' pause in which Horace did not react, he added, "That means 'About Horace.'"

 

Horace didn't interrupt, but settled in comfortably, trying not to fall asleep, so as not to make Leonide think he wasn't listening.

 

He couldn't help but let his thoughts wander, however, first to the moss, and then to the events of the past few months. These reflective moods often seemed to come during a lull in the action, often before something important happened. Horace didn't know why this was.

 

Sometimes he would think about his age (twenty-five, his birthday having passed since Halloween) or his relationship status (happily taken—by one Leonide Allard, professor of Ancient Runes, he of the charming French accent and bottomless blue eyes), or other things that people who hadn't known him before this exact moment wouldn't know, such as the fact that he had decided to grow a moustache. Leonide didn't yet know about this plan, but Horace was confident that Leonide would love it just as much as he loved the various other parts of Horace's anatomy. (Like his ears. Leonide loved his ears.)

 

After their seven months together, Horace thought he knew Leonide extremely well, or at least, he had learned to predict his habits with some reliability. Leonide seemed to be the paragon of vigor: when he wasn't teaching, he would spend the weekday evenings holed up in his study, writing like a madman, and the weekends with Horace. This had gotten to be routine after Christmas when Leonide had announced that his publishing contract dictated that he produce a fourth book by the end of 1926. This made Horace anxious; he wondered if there was anything he could possibly do to match Leonide's prolific output. He was beginning to feel somewhat inadequate. Of course, he was only twenty-five, but Leonide had published three books before he was twenty-five, and Horace would be twenty-six in five months. He had to do something big.

 

Horace believed, as he had all his life, that his misfortunes were the result of bad luck. This was especially unfortunate because he had so recently been granted a dose of good luck in the form of Felix Felicis. Returning to his normal situation seemed all the more painful in comparison. He decided it was a fluke that Leonide stuck with him even after realizing how incredibly unlucky life could be for poor Horace.

 

He felt his eyes flutter. It was such a struggle to stay awake. The warm breeze was such a relief after the long Scottish winter, with Leonide's soft, accented voice acting as the perfect soporific…

 

"You are falling asleep, aren't you?" Leonide asked pointedly.

 

"Why ever would I do that, darling?" Horace asked, opening just one eye.

 

Leonide laid his book aside, a faint smirk on his lips. "I haven't the faintest. You must be bored." He leaned down and kissed Horace, slowly, teasingly. "What say I entertain you?" he murmured against Horace's ear.

 

Horace felt a tingle of pleasure zap down his spine, which prevented him from responding with anything more eloquent than a glazed-over expression. Fortunately, Leonide did not seem to notice this, as he shifted position and continued kissing all the parts of Horace he could reach.

 

After several moments of acting as though he would never see Horace again, Leonide rolled over onto his back and gazed up at the trees forming a canopy above their heads.

 

"What do you think of summer?" he asked quietly, curling up at Horace's side.

 

"Hrm?" Horace pillowed his hands behind his head. "I quite like summer. It's one of my favorite times of year."

 

"No," said Leonide, propping his head up on his elbow and toying with a lock of Horace's hair. "What do you want to do during summer? Together, I mean."

 

"Together?" Horace blinked. "You mean, like…" He paused. "Go on holiday?"

 

"Oh, you want to go on holiday?" Leonide beamed. "I was thinking…" he began.

 

Horace gulped. It was quite dangerous to let Leonide think, especially when he had that look in his eyes.

 

"I'd like you to meet my mother," Leonide continued. "We should go back home to Demagie."

 

Horace knit his eyebrows. "Your mother?"

 

"Of course," said Leonide. "She really wants to meet you; I've told her many things about you, Horace."

 

Horace was flabbergasted. "Y-you told her … about me?"

 

Leonide blinked in surprise. "Of course I did!" he said matter-of-factly, leaning over to kiss Horace on the cheek. "She cannot wait to meet you."

 

"Wait, you've already told her we're coming?"

 

Leonide's ears went pink. "Well, I told her we'd think about it, and one thing led to another, and, well, I'm so glad you want to go! After all," he added. "I want to write about the Tomb in my new book. It's about primitive wizards' accidental discovery of the power of runes." He looked as if this were the most interesting topic in the entire world.

 

"Well," said Horace graciously, quite liking seeing Leonide look so excited about something. "If it's for your research..."

 

Leonide grinned. "You'll love Demagie, I promise. It's just like Hogsmeade but far, far older, with more to do. And," he said, giving Horace a conspiratorial wink, "I'll show you things the tourists never see." Horace must have looked intrigued, because he went on, "I've been going about the Tomb since I was small. I learned English from the students at the research station." He got to his feet. "We should go back to the school," he added briskly. "Or we'll be missed."

 

Horace followed obediently. He had to take a few minutes to get himself used to the idea of going to visit Leonide's mother. It rather seemed an awful waste of a holiday—in France, of all places—just to go see Leonide's mother and help Leonide do research for his book at some musty old tomb in some backwater tourist town. Horace began thinking of other things he might suggest. Surely, if he suggested an alternative like New York, Leonide couldn't pass it up?

 

Leonide must have noticed his silence, for when they had reached the doors to the castle, he turned and said, "You don't want to go, do you?"

 

"What?" sputtered Horace, fully aware that Leonide's crestfallen expression was having more than a little to do with his defensive reaction. "Of course, I want to go! I want to meet your mother. Why wouldn't I?" He gave Leonide his most winning smile. 

 

"Because you haven't said anything."

 

"I was thinking," said Horace lamely, fishing for excuses. "I was thinking that maybe—just maybe—we'd like to go somewhere else. Not instead," he added hastily when he saw Leonide open his mouth to object. "Just… in addition to." He grinned. Even Leonide cracked a smile.

 

"That would be nice," he said. "Especially since I have to go back to Beauxbatons." He sighed wistfully. "I'll see you later, oui?"

 

"Oui," said Horace, with a smile.

 

As he walked away, a thought occurred to him that hadn't in months.

 

Leonide would be returning to Beauxbatons when the new school term started. Horace desperately didn't want him to go. He hated thinking about Leonide's leaving, so much so that he tried to avoid it. It always heralded an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach, such as he’d gotten when he felt he hadn't studied enough for a test when he was in school. He shifted uncomfortably and scratched behind his ear.

 

He loved Leonide, he believed, truly loved him, and he didn't want him to go. This wasn't one of those fling-affairs, it was something serious. He was almost at the point of regarding Leonide as a constant presence at his side. He would have liked it very much if he could take Leonide for granted, like a favorite pillow or an old hat. Of course, this was a ridiculously inane thought, one that he certainly couldn't put into words, much less words he could utter in front of Leonide, who would probably be offended to be compared to an old hat, even if the old hat Horace had in mind was a very nice one.

 

We'll have the summer, Horace told himself mournfully, as he headed into his afternoon class, second-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Somehow, however, he couldn't keep his mind on Cheering Draughts.

 

**

 

The last week of school seemed to drag on forever for the students, and it seemed even longer for Horace. After he gave his exams, on Tuesday morning, he had to grade the exams, and get them back to the students in a timely manner.

 

Grading exams was not Horace's idea of a gay old time, especially not when the sun was shining, the weather was warm and their clearing looked more inviting than ever. Leonide had mentioned in passing having a book of poems by a Greek chap called Cavafy that sounded most interesting, if the snatch Leonide had whispered in his ear at breakfast had been any indication.

 

Leonide was one to talk, Horace thought petulantly, as he walked away. He had fewer students and no practicals to grade. Practicals were extremely dangerous and unpredictable.

 

Before long, however, the school year was over. Horace had finished his grading, handed back the tests and enjoyed the Leaving Feast. He’d promised to put a good word in with a friend who had a rather low-level Ministry job for a girl who had asked, and he’d promised to owl his cousin at the Prophet for an aspiring journalist, one of his favorites.

 

The morning after the students had gone, Horace planned to enjoy his first morning of vacation sleep.

 

There was very little Horace loved more than sleeping in (certain sweets, and when Leonide did that thing with his tongue could possibly outrank it). As it was, he was lazily absorbing the early-morning sunlight, still wrapped in his cocoon of blankets when he was rudely awakened by the sounds of drawers opening and closing. 

 

Horace tried not to move a muscle, in the hopes that if Leonide thought he was asleep, maybe he would leave him alone. Part of his brain was wondering if he wasn't confusing Leonide with bears, when Leonide ripped the covers off the bed and announced his presence quite rudely for a Frenchman.

 

"Up," said Leonide. "Get up, our Portkey leaves in an hour. You go and get yourself ready. I'll pack for you."

 

Horace sat up, blinking confusedly. "What?" he asked. Leonide stared at him as if he were insane. Horace decided it would probably be best not to ask for five more minutes.

 

He shuffled blearily into the bathroom, wondering if he could get a few more minutes of shut-eye in the shower.

 

**

 

Horace hated Portkeys.  Of course, he hated most forms of travel, but he hated Portkeys the most. He hated the tug behind his navel, the queasiness, the sensation of bumping into any body but Leonide's (today, it was that of a toady-looking old man). Besides, they were rather expensive. When they had been deposited unceremoniously in the town square of Demagie, Horace landed flat on his back, both of their suitcases on top of him. Leonide landed far more gracefully and gave Horace a 'stop-fooling-around' look.

"Isn't it beautiful?" he asked, indicating the town with a sweeping gesture that made Horace feel dizzy. He blinked woozily and stumbled to his feet.

He had to admit that the town had a charming quaintness to it, like something out of a fairy tale. The houses were small and clustered closely together; most were made of plaster with a few thatched roofs thrown in for good measure. Leonide was gazing reverently at a statue of Merlin in the center of the grassy square.

 

"He's our founder," said Leonide, adjusting his glasses as he peered at the sign. Before he could start translating, Horace cut in.

 

"But I thought Merlin was British."

 

Leonide straightened up, a glint in his eyes which said, 'I'm going to take a long time to explain something, and I'm going to ignore most of your protests.' "Yes, you do claim him, don't you?" He chuckled. "Well, he was born here, they think, and he's still here, of course you know that."

Horace decided not to tell Leonide that he had had the misfortune of having Cuthbert Binns for History of Magic, and definitely didn't know where Merlin was. He nodded intelligently, hoping he could cut Leonide's ramblings off short.

 

Leonide smiled. "If you listened to me, you'd find it's very interesting. Trust me, by the end of the fortnight, you'll be an expert." He picked up his suitcase and nodded up the high street. "My mother's shop is this way. She's expecting us. We can explore later."

"Of course!" said Horace, suddenly hit by a pang of nervousness. Leonide's mother! They were about to meet Leonide's mother! He felt his knees go weak. She'll hate me, he thought mournfully. She'll think I'm all wrong for her son.

 

Horace shifted his jacket onto his other arm. Leonide quickened his pace.

 

What's he told her? he wondered. What does one tell one's mother about... these things? He flicked his eyes to Leonide, who was smiling innocently. I suppose he's told her he likes me. I hope he's told her he likes me. He ran a nervous hand through his hair, making it stand on end, and then flattened it again. He tried to brush his fringe to the side, but it just flopped back onto his forehead.

"Stop playing with it," said Leonide, out of the corner of his mouth. "And put your jacket on."

**

 

The shop was deserted when they arrived. It was small, but brightly-lit and airy, with sagging shelves crowded with a wide selection of potions ingredients. Horace perked up a bit, scanning the labels.

"I didn't know your mother ran an apothecary," he remarked appreciatively, picking up a box of dried sneezewort.

"Maman?" Leonide called cautiously, as he walked toward the back of the shop. Then, he started speaking French.

Horace froze. He'd forgotten about that. The language barrier wasn't something he'd often thought about on a day-to-day basis. Of course, he knew Leonide's first language was not English, but he spoke such good English that he had come to regard Leonide's delightful accent as an addition to the whole package.

A shriek of surprise echoed from the back of the shop and a slightly dumpy woman with graying brown hair rushed forward and flung her arms around Leonide's neck. She kissed him on both cheeks, rattling away in rapid French.

Then, she turned her attention on Horace. He gulped. Mme. Allard sized him up, then turned to Leonide and made a remark that caused him to blush furiously.

"This is my... my Horace, Maman," he said, getting over whatever she'd said. "He doesn't speak French, so..."

"English is fine, dear," she said, giving Horace's hand an emphatic squeeze. Her English was nowhere near as good as her son's, but Horace could see from up close that Leonide had inherited his eyes from his mother. "I am very pleased to meet you, Leonide's Horace."

Horace smiled awkwardly. Leonide was shooting him death glares over his mother's head and was mouthing something that looked indecent.

"How do you do?" Horace managed, shaking Mme. Allard's hand.

She beamed. "So polite!" she said, more to Leonide than to Horace.

Horace shifted uncomfortably. This wasn't a situation he'd experienced before. Leonide's mother did seem genuinely nice, but Horace wasn't exactly sure what to say to her. It wasn't as if he really could do anything for her. He just had to hope she liked him.

"Why don't you boys go and put your things upstairs?" She winked at Leonide. "First door on your left."

Leonide grabbed his suitcase and practically flew up the stairs. Horace followed him, afraid to be alone with Leonide's mother. It wasn't that he was afraid of her, really; he just needed time to get used to her.

"This is my room," Leonide announced, pushing open a door at the end of the hall. "What do you think?"

Horace's first thought was that it was small. The bed was barely big enough for one, let alone two, and it was almost impossible for them to maneuver around each other.

"It's perfect," Leonide sighed, placing his suitcase on his bed. "It's good to be home."

"Is it really all right?" Horace asked from the door. "For me to be here, I mean? I could... I could find an inn. I saw one in the square."

Leonide stood up and placed his hands on Horace's shoulders and guided him into the room. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, forcing Horace to sit on the bed. Finding nowhere for himself, he sat somewhat awkwardly on Horace's lap. "My mother understands about us, trust me. And there's no way I'm letting you off on your own where you don't speak the language. Plus, I couldn’t bear to be apart from you, Horace!"

Horace nodded, but he was still frowning a little.

Leonide shifted, and tangled his fingers in the hair at the nape of Horace’s neck. "Don't worry about it," he murmured. "My mother loves you, or she will. I'm sure!" He brushed his lips against Horace's. "Just be yourself."

"Mm," said Horace, unconvinced.

Leonide kissed him again, this time more deeply. "Poor Horace," he whispered, brushing his thumb across Horace's cheek. "You're far too tense," he announced, sliding Horace's jacket off his shoulders and draping it neatly over his suitcase. "I think you need me to help you relax." Then, as if on second thought, he slid off Horace's lap and went over to close the door. "After all, we're just unpacking." He smirked and dropped lazily to the floor in front of the bed, placing both hands on Horace's knees.

"I think we should go back downstairs," said Horace hastily. "Your mother hasn't seen you, she probably wants to talk to you..." The closer Leonide got with that look in his eye, the more nervous Horace became. "A-a-and we haven't even unpacked at all and... and... and I think I'm getting hungry!"

Leonide sat back on his heels and looked at Horace oddly. "Really?" he asked in bewilderment. Horace nodded vigorously.

Leonide sighed and stood up. "You're right," he said, twisting a curl of his hair around his finger. Then, he smiled. "Let's go," he said brightly. "I want to introduce you to Maman properly." He turned and strode out of the room.

Horace followed, wondering what on Earth he'd gotten himself into.