At nine o'clock, it's only four in the Caribbean.
The sand is coarse and black, and judging by the sun beating down on them, it must be near to thirty degrees. Severus looks up at inky clouds blotting the cerulean-blue sky. "Not quite the end of the rainy season," he remarks.
Already Harry is toeing off his shoes and socks and rushing to the ocean. Rolling his eyes, Severus drops the Portkey and trunks, takes off his boots, and follows. His robes drag heavily in the warm seawater behind him like a long silver shadow.
He sees the beach ending in a cliff, with jungle and palm trees, and Harry's bright smile lighting up his face.
Harry swings their intertwined hands as they trudge along the shallow waters. "When Sirius stayed here with Buckbeak, he sent tropical looking birds instead of owls."
"Ah. Witherwings. I can't imagine this was an ideal spot for a Hippogriff."
"It's an ideal spot for Harrys." He stoops to wet his other hand in the seawater. "I bet there's tropical fish, and coral. We should go out with a Bubble-Head Charm and take a look!"
"Perhaps if it is a shallow reef—I have no ambition to be killed by a shark."
"They have sharks here? Do you know any spells to send them away?"
"I'm not a Spell Encyclopaedia. And there are doubtless all sorts of dangerous creatures here. In fact..."
He takes out his wand, and Harry does the same. They cast spells for detection of Dark Magic, and all seems well.
At Severus's insistence, they turn to retrieve their things, otherwise it's a one-way ticket to sunburn and misery.
On their way back, Harry asks, "Is it normal to have your own island?"
Severus nods. "Some of the oldest families had their own tropical islands for harvesting potion ingredients. In days gone by, the apothecaries were somewhat limited, and land untouched by Muggles was a valuable source of income."
"Did your family have any islands?"
Severus looks out to sea. "Yes. My grandfather lost the fortune to gambling. It took a long time for Mum to talk Grandma 'round that the Gobstones Club was harmless. And now Grandma's a keen bridge player, as you know."
Harry snorts. "Yeah." He gestures to the cliff. "So I suppose this is Unplottable. Who renews the Muggle-Repelling Charms?"
"It's probably House-Elf magic. I wonder if Kreacher still visits."
The sand is scorching beneath their toes, so he blasts Harry's feet with the Hot-Air Charm, and they put their shoes back on.
Hand-in-hand, they head inshore, their luggage floating behind them. A cacophony of exotic bird calls and unidentified animals follow them as they pass trees with trunks six feet across, and sidestep white and crimson flowers overflowing onto the path. On the way up the steep slope, the dense canopy of the gigantic trees shades them.
The cabana sits in a clearing, lifted ten feet above ground by wooden beams to gain the benefit of a breeze. The walls of woven palm reach just waist height, above which hang simple white curtains that wave in the wind. Thatch shades the large veranda and when they enter the cabana, they see it is just one spacious room. Breeze-powered ceiling fans revolve lazily above an enormous bed shrouded by a mosquito net. There's a tiny kitchenette in the corner with a table and chairs for two, as well as two squashy chaise longues and a rammed bookshelf.
Severus examines the titles with half a mind to look up the Bubble-Head Charm whilst Harry opens all the cupboard doors. He whistles and gestures to boxes and boxes of food with Hermione's neat penmanship, and George's untidy scrawl. In a cool cabinet, there's milk, juice, white wine, and a trifle.
YOU ARE READING
The Space Between Failing and Falling • Snarry •
FanfictionA very long time ago, Severus resigned himself to the reality that he doesn't have a soulmate after all. He's finally a real Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher and his life is perfectly tolerable, thank you very much. However, at the age of thirt...
