What Does A Wizard Wear Under His Robes?

Imagine spending sixteen hours in a flying car. This means, passing through vividly coloured clouds, flying into the sunset, navigating through the pitch-black night by means of a glow-in-the-dark compass and sextant. At some point we feel something tickle the back of our heads, see it brighten our rear view mirror: behind us, the sun is rising again, following us, catching up with us, burning from above, and finally reappearing as a blinding fire in our windscreen. We are flying west. If my calculations are right, we will reach the North American coast before the next sunset.

Imagine spending sixteen hours in a flying car. That means, staying in our car seats for all that time, no running up and down the aisle, no loo break; no loo. For comfort, we have pushed the seats all the way backwards so we can stretch our legs to a tolerable extent; for the other problem - well, I am used to it, and I do have a potion which helps. As for him - I'm not sure. It is more than likely that he knows this simple and useful potion, but then again, he hasn't had much time to prepare for this journey and didn't know what was coming. Be that as it may, so far he hasn't complained about it, and I didn't ask him about it. As a matter of fact, I didn't feel like asking about his well-being.

So he's coming with me, perhaps to spend the rest of his life with me. At least I thought that was what he meant when he said he'd come along and leave his old life behind me, his post as Hogwarts' Potions Master, his hope of becoming the school's headmaster one day. He said he'd rather come with me, although this will mean treading unknown turf. In my opinion, such grand plans and sacrifices would justify such things as a kiss now and then, a hand on my knee, or perhaps a word of affection - not to mention asking whether or not it might be possible to do it right here in the air, high over the Atlantic. I'm sure Drifter, the car, wouldn't have minded. It wouldn't have been comfortable, but after all, I've had the hots for him since 1973. Okay, let's not be drastic, I wouldn't mind waiting another day, if things were different: Here he's been sitting next to me for sixteen long hours, without even a gesture of endearment or affection, brooding and monosyllabic. I can always send him on the next flight back to Scotland if I find out this was a mistake, I tell myself. I picture myself stuffing him into his trunk, strapping the thing shut and shipping him via airmail.

Labouring to draw him into conversation isn't fun; the prickling sensation of having him so close to me for so long has made room for a dull ache of disappointment. Turning around is out of question, of course, so I sleep at intervals or play some CDs to take my mind off things. Sixteen hours are such a long time that going through last year's greatest two albums twice certainly should be justified. In my opinion these are, of course, Radiohead's OK Computer and Tool's Aenima. Paranoid Android and especially No Surprises - these songs pierce my heart as if I heard them for the first time. Such longing, such yearning, such pain in this music - but Verus doesn't comment. He just looks straight ahead into the blazing sun. Soon, soon we'll see the coast, or would see it if the sun wouldn't blind us so badly. This was a mistake, I think again as I see his face devoid of any sign of excitement. Next flight home for you, Snape, tourist class. But then again ...

Have you ever wondered what a wizard wears under his robes? Don't get me wrong, I've had the pleasure of undressing a wizard now and then, so I really should know. Some just wear trousers underneath, especially in winter. Then there's different kinds of authentic wizard underwear, anything between plain leggings and black silk stockings. Hardliners of course are rumoured to wear either nothing underneath or to stick to grandma's hand-knitted woollen underwear, obnoxious and probably rash-inducing. I forbid my mind to run on such a course. He may be considered ascetic; whether out of general misanthropy or out of masochism must be left open to interpretation. Even Severus Snape, however, must draw the line at sheep wool long johns, don't you think? I'm making an effort to convince myself.

Right in the middle of my least favourite Tool song, Die Eier Satans, Drifter starts to descend. I worry for a second - crossing the Atlantic in a flying car is not an entirely safe method of transportation, a minor detail I decided to withhold from him. But we are lucky: it's not that my faithful, Ensouled Ford Anglia has a problem; it's rather that it spotted the coast. I point out the distant, dull green line to Verus. He merely nods. So we've arrived, he seems to say, so what? Damn that wizard!

I'm always amazed by Drifters' perseverance - after this astonishing flying marathon it still manages to descend onto the first paved road in sight in a graceful arc. After the car pops into visibility, I tell it that it did a fantastic job, and that we will take a well-deserved rest at the first motel we find. I also talk of getting petrol - it's called gas here, I remind the car - and oil to keep up Drifter's spirits. It's simply amazing that it brought us across the Atlantic with a single tank filling, but then again, Drifter is a car like no other. It certainly deserves all the pep talk I can come up with.

The first motel we see is a run-down affair near a completely insignificant East Coast hamlet, but both Drifter and I decide not to make a fuss. Verus is not asked, nor does he comment. When Drifter shudders to a halt on an empty parking space near the reception, I give the steering wheel a hug. "You were great," I tell it again. Then I get out of the car and go to open the trunk. My limbs groan with every step I take, and my back is killing me. I stretch as well as I can, then make sure I have my wallet with US dollars and a fake US driver's license ready. Of course I should put a concealment charm on Drifter, because the last time I took the car to the US, people kept asking about the strange number plate as well as the location of the steering wheel. Never mind that for tonight, some part of my body tells me while I get a small overnight bag out of the trunk and hand Verus the smaller one of his trunks. Tonight, all you want to do is stretch out on a bed and get some sleep. Of course, another part of my body says that's not at all what I want to do on a bed tonight.

We walk, or should I say limp, up to the reception. In his black, floor-length wizard robes, carrying a leather trunk held together with brass nails, Verus is far from inconspicuous. In my experience, the best way to deal with such things is to pretend everything about you is completely ordinary. Most people will play along, even if they think you belong shut away. I open the door to the vomit-coloured reception building, flinch at the out-of-tune chimes, and lean against the ersatz teak counter while waiting for a noisy Muggle family of five to book their rooms. Verus waits right behind me. The thought of his nearness makes my hair stand on end.

What am I to do now? Half of my body wants one thing, the other something completely different; my mind tells me that completely different thing may not be as easily acquired as I think. However, this second part of my body, the lower one, should I say, can be rather persuasive. What do I do now?

Sometimes a truly complicated emotional or even philosophical matter can be settled by focussing on a simple, practical question. I turn to the wizard behind me. His complexion is grey rather than white, and I'm sure his back hurts no less than mine. "Single room or double?" I ask him softly just when the Muggle woman behind the counter hands the Muggle mother her room keys. Verus gives me an enigmatical look out of the depths of his bloodshot eyes. "Double," he replies flatly.

I admit I'm rather offended. I know I may sound rather vain now, but in the past there have been a couple of men who really wanted to sleep with me. To achieve this end, they underwent such courting rituals of buying me drinks, paying me compliments, maybe also walking me home or spending an hour discussing the merits of the Grunge scene with me. I'm not playing hard to get, but never have I expected that when asking a man "Single room or double?" he would not even smile, or put an arm around me, or have a single word of ... well, never mind self-pity. I slap my fake ID on the table and give another false name for Verus. The receptionist, an elderly Muggle lady looking as dusty as her workplace, does not ask for his driver's license. I have that effect on people, I grimly acknowledge while making a mental note that I have to contact one of my forger wizard friends: Verus needs a fake ID, too - even if only to send him home on the next flight.

I pocket the keys and stumble out across the parking lot to our room - no need to wake up Drifter, it will be happy to rest outside the reception, and if anybody complains, send them to me! Verus walks behind me, and I wish for clairvoyance as fervently as I have ever wished for powers which I don't have. I long for the toilet, for a long, hot shower, and a decent bed. Finally I am unlocking room no. 17. I feel relieved. I feel excited. I feel terribly, terribly anxious. What will happen now?

The room is no better than could be expected - small, crammed with unattractive furniture, the blinds bent and broken, the walls covered with truly tasteless prints. Wicked as he is, Verus disappears into the bathroom, taking his trunk with him. Suppressing howls of impatience (I meant that bit about the toilet, in spite of the potion), I let myself fall on the bed, which proves not to be entirely up to standard: My butt almost touches the ground. Impatiently, I take my wand out of the pocket of my leather jacket and tap the bed until it is firm, but bouncy. That's better, I think. As soon as I can persuade myself to get up again, I go around, transfigure the paintings and furniture a bit and fix the blinds. Later customers of this motel will thank me. And of course, I can't help worrying what Verus will think of this world I am taking to. As far as I know he has never left the British Isles, has never ventured very far beyond the world of witches and wizards. The rest of the world is so much less genteel than the places he knows, I think. He must think it coarse and dreary. In spite of all my misgivings regarding a possible love affair between Verus and me, I want him to like it here.

I'm trying hard to put a rein on my thoughts which are running wild. In spite of my attempt to ground them to the stable, again and again I find them galloping around many silly questions, one of which is: 'Virgin or not virgin?' Of course, his celibate lifestyle does suggest the first, but those rumours I've heard about him and Dolores Lestrange, formerly the Queen of the Death Eaters and, regrettably, my dear aunt - oh well, I don't really want to think about it. It's just that I'm curious.

When the door of the bathroom finally opens, I have a sensation of fine sand running down my spine: There's more to it than the fact that I've never seen him naked before. Really, all I've ever seen of him are his sallow face and his bony hands; everything else was always concealed in billowing, black robes which would not let me get even an idea of his figure. And yet I always longed for him - longed for him age thirteen, and, I admit, longed for him these past three years, in spite of all the things that happened. In the years that passed between those times - well, I didn't see much of him, but oddly enough, most men I found attractive were pale and thin, had longish black hair and dark eyes or were at least adorned with an abnormally large nose. His image, such as was available to me, shaped the riverbed of my desires all these years. Now I want to see it the real thing, see the rest of him. How I long to see the shape of his chest, and legs, and ass, not to mention...

Imagine my disappointment when he emerges from the bathroom in a grey, floor-length, decidedly unsexy nightshirt. I cast my eyes downwards at his marble-coloured feet, the only new thing his night garment reveals to me. Then I grab my bag, deciding that nobody ever said he had a monopoly on being rude. I can be rude, too. Without a comment, I make for the bathroom, tending to the most urgent needs first. After that, I take a decadently long and hot shower, trying to wash all sweat, fatigue and ache off my body. I take my sweet time to magically dry myself and try not to think of the wizard who may or may not be waiting impatiently outside that door. For a nightshirt, I choose a thigh-length creation of aubergine coloured satin and spaghetti straps, indecently expensive and the sexiest one I own - not a garment to be worn at night, but a garment to be admired, then taken off.

A few brush strokes and the tiniest drop of perfume later, my hand is on the door knob. It is trembling considerably. It is going to happen, my body says. I wouldn't be so sure about that, says the voice in my head, the one that I'd bite off if I was a Runespoor. The room starts to slowly spin around me. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and count to ten. Then I open the door and step outside.

All light in the room are off except for a small one right next to the bed - obviously, Muggle light switches are no great challenge for a true wizard. He reclines on the bed in a Roman table pose, still covered by his repulsive grey night shirt, and stares at me. It's these black eyes that do that to me, I think when I feel my stomach churn. Stare at me with these eyes, Verus, and there goes my willpower.

Something in me wants to run away. I was never aware that, besides other things, I am afraid of him. Now I am. I place my wand near the bed to be on the safe side, just in case he will be getting ideas that I do not like. Then I sit. I look at him. He still pierces me with his stare. I want to reach over to him and touch him, I want to run away as fast as I can, I want to take my wand and annihilate his stupid nightshirt, I want to be held.

None of these things happen. Instead, Verus does something completely unexpected: His arm approaches me, then reaches beyond me to point his wand at the small lamp. The room falls into complete darkness.

I know there used to be a time when it was considered a sin to keep the lights on while making love, but excuse me - how medievally prudish does this have to get? I am still eager to get a look at his body, but before I figure out how to protest, I feel his hand slide up my bare arm.

I didn't expect it would feel like this, that a comparatively innocent touch would sent 220 Volt through my body. Suddenly I'm not really up to discussing things anymore, so I let myself sink where I hope I will find his embrace. Once more, fate holds a surprise in store for me.

One of his hands slips under my nightshirt, the other finds the zipper in a matter of seconds, undoes it and removes the garment without a single moment of clumsiness or embarrassment. I feel his lips and tongue on the skin of my body; his breath caresses my skin as he slowly makes his way downwards. One of the last coherent thoughts I am able to think for a while is that he has definitely done this before. Someone trained him, trained him well. He knows exactly what he is doing, and he has a knack for this.

Okay, let's skip the next couple of minutes, because I'm not the type to dwell on oohs and aahs. I am enjoying myself, I really am, but I can't help noticing a certain ... well, a routine-like detachment on his side. He keeps his body away from mine, he seems controlled rather than passionate, and if I'm not mistaken, he is still wearing that hideous nightshirt. Not meaning to criticise extensive foreplay - definitely not, never! - but before long, my arms are reaching out for him, aching to pull him nearer. My fingers touch coarse linen. "Take off that ridiculous thing and come right here," I groan. I hear a noise that is almost a laugh, but he still keeps me at arm's length.

Twisting and struggling, I draw away from the wonderful things he keeps doing to me, and tug at the hem of that obnoxious piece of clothing. I am bent to do onto him as he as done onto me, so to speak. Once my lips touch flesh - a knee, as it turns out, damn this darkness - I hear his breath come a bit faster. So he is not altogether beyond feeling anything at all, I think happily and proceed. Temporarily robbed of my sight, my other senses seem sharpened. Taste, smell and skin structures show me where I want to go. When I arrive, he makes a noise the like I've never heard in my life. There is no question that routine and detachment have outstayed their welcome even with him, that is plain to feel. This is going to get very good, I think, until my lips touch an alien object - something that should not be there at all.

He draws away so quickly that he almost traps my head in the unbearable garment. Without thinking, I bend down to grab my wand from the floor, point it at the lamp to relight it, then point it at Verus' nightshirt to make it dissolve into thin air. (And here I was, thinking that it would be my nightshirt which - well, never mind that now.) Only after I stripped him in this fashion, I see his eyes. They are the eyes of a cornered animal. He lies there in an embryonic position, hugging his knees rather tightly, his Dark Mark shining on the skin of his forearm. Never have I seen him so scared, not even when facing the Dark Lord. What have I done? What does he hide?

I run a hand up his marked arm. "What is it, Verus?" I ask. He mutely shakes his head, desperation in his eyes. I place a kiss on each finger. "Show me. We'll face this together, whatever it is." He gives me the look of a dying deer, odd as this may sound, knowing him.

"Leave me, just leave me," he croaks. He means it, I realise. He would rather let this thing end before it began than show me what he has kept hidden under long, billowing robes for so long. I, however, persist. With kind words and gentle touches, I coax his legs into revealing what I want to see.

It could be worse, really - it's not like he is a vile mutant or anything. What I see there, shining on his hairless ivory skin, is a slightly convex branding-cum-tattoo. It displays a second, rather bizarre Dark Mark - a scull placed on his pubic bone, its snakey tongue winding downwards the organ which is visibly not in the mood for love-making anymore.

This Dark Mark is a mark of property. It is a love gimmick, commissioned, I believe, by a witch hungry for just another sexual kick. It was also used as a way to hurt and humiliate a young wizard of approximately eighteen years beyond words I could master. I am not repulsed. I am angry. I have to remind myself that Dolores Lestrange is dead and buried, or I would leave at once to find and kill her.

"Does it still hurt?" I ask instead.

His eyes look at me as if he expected me to curse him to death or something. Then he slowly shakes his head. "Not physically," he replies.

I don't want him to look so vulnerable. Somehow I feel that if we don't find a way to deal with this ... thing ... here and now, we never will. It will grow between us like a thorny hedge if I let it sting me tonight. I put a hand on his protruding ribs and run it very slowly downwards across his flat stomach, trying to show him that I do not find him repulsive in spite of this, no, not at all.

Verus grabs my hand by the wrist and violently thrusts it off. His face distorts in fear and anger. "Don't touch it," he snarls. "It's disgusting! It's a taint. I am tainted!"

"What is done is done," I tell him as calmly as I can. "There's no point in lingering on the past. This is 1998, the Dark Lord is defeated, and there's nothing to be ashamed of."

He hides his face in his hand and turns to the wall. I wrap my body around his and stroke him until he trembles a little less. After kissing my way up to his ear, I whisper: "Verus, I love you the way you are, not the way you think you should be."

There, now I've done it - I mentioned the 'L-word' first! An hour ago, I would not have permitted myself to do so, but now I feel we are well beyond the point where words like pride still have meaning. Very slowly, he turns around to face me. I feel a careful, trembling hand slide up my arm. His head is buried in my shoulder; his nose is pressed against my collar bone. Slowly he turns his face to me. His eyes are full of pain, but in the cold, hard shell that I've always perceived around him since I first came to Hogwarts as a teacher, there seems to be a tiny crack. Seeing how this is brought about by suffering, I feel an intense pain in my own heart, but I know it must be so. When he approaches his face to mine to kiss my lips for the very first time, I close my eyes. The lips and tongue that just did so expertly what they were probably drilled to do now kiss me rather timidly and clumsily. When I touch his lips with my tongue a bit to encourage him, he starts. I realise he has never kissed anyone on the mouth before. It takes a while before he has worked out how two pairs of lips and two tongues can get along together, before I feel his hands run up and down my back and entangle themselves in my hair, before his body moves against mine. It is then that I know it will be alright, that he is very ready to make a new start with me in this respect. One thing leads to another so smoothly that I do not give it another thought. We are joined, that is all, and all is how it should be. - Oh, the gimmick? Yes, I admit, the gimmick is well placed. But I don't want to think about that, and I'm sure he doesn't want to hear about it.

Afterwards, I lie there with him in an entanglement of arms and legs, sticky and beyond fatigue. I look into his eyes and run a finger along his bony face. He pulls me towards him and whispers a few things in my ear which are too private to be put into writing. Then, at last, we sleep.