"I'm worried about him," Hermione whispered, pointing down and out the window towards where Harry Potter sat, gazing out at the sparkling blue of the lake. He was tall and lanky now – thin and sickly looking even without taking into account the bulky white bandaging around his right arm.

"Who?" Ron asked distractedly, turning his attention back to the thick tome that lay before him. Who cared about the Bloody Mary Curse, anyhow? Ron certainly wasn't dumb enough to try to summon ghosts. Getting glares and claims of being ‘insensitive' from Nearly Headless Nick were enough for him, thank you very much.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, gearing up for one of her morally superior rants. "Ron, I can't believe . . ."

"I know who, Hermione. I'm not a total git. Look, I just don't know what you expect me to do about it. I've tried talking to him," Ron indicated his left ear, which was still looking a bit wrinkled after taking a well placed Hickly-Pickly curse. "He's Harry. He won't tell us until he's good and ready."

"But we know about his injury. Ron, we have to find out more about the Dark Mark."

Ron grimaced. It wasn't like they hadn't fought too. It wasn't as though they didn't have the right to be just as traumatized as Harry. Ron thought he could still hear Neville screaming, Professor Lupin as a wild animal, human blood dripping from a wolf's wide smile, and Lucius Malfoy screaming and begging for mercy (it wasn't the glorious moment he'd imagined). How much worse could Harry's encounter with you-know-who have been? And it wasn't as though he'd lost . . . well, then again, Harry barely had anyone left to lose.

"Hermione, that's Harry's business. Like I said, we should just wait. He'll tell us when he's ready."

Hermione stood at that, reaching across the table to grab Ron by the jaw (which wasn't half as sexy as it really should be), turning his head until he looked out the library window to the scene below. "Ronald Weasley. Harry is your best friend. Are you really going to wait until it's too late?"

Ron gulped. He most definitely did not possess ‘the sight,' but if it ever were possible for him to see the Grim, he'd imagine it would be circling Harry like a vulture at this very moment. "Well it beats Bloody Mary," he offered weakly, closing his book.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, not entirely satisfied, but stood and stalked over to the Restricted Section of the library. Madame Pince looked up from her post, but even she knew better than stop the brightest witch of their age.

It was Hermione's innocent and terrified face that he saw every time he closed his eyes, Bellatrix Lestrange's body turned inside-out at her feet.

---

If it hadn't been for the crutches, Rodney would have taken John back to his quarters himself. Instead he had to settle for watching Ronon push the man along in a wheelchair, Teyla walking beside him and laughing animatedly to distract John from his constant designs on escape from the chair.

"Just like you, Sheppard, to make it all the way to the Gate before getting shot."

"You and Dr. McKay did navigate the cave incredibly quickly," Teyla remarked. "Even Ronon had trouble with those large boulders in the last section."

"I did not," Ronon grumbled.

"Well, Rodney and I managed just fine," John said, voice low and calm like there hadn't been any precipice at all, and certainly not any suspicious bouncing.

"Fine, if you consider . . ." Rodney began, only to have John forcefully interrupt.

"I do consider."

Teyla looked at them, perplexed, but didn't say anything. On one hand, Rodney hated it when she treated them the same way she did the arrow-wielding aliens, but on the other hand, it was good not to be questioned.

"I got down it quicker than you did," Ronon said.

John was smirking. Rodney could tell by the sound of his voice. "I'm sure you did. Well, what do you know? It looks like we're here. Thanks so much for the . . ." he gestured vaguely. "You know. I can walk from here."

Teyla narrowed her eyes, but didn't object. "I am glad you are feeling well, John. Heal quickly."

John nodded. "I will."

"Yeah, you need to get better so I can kick your ass at that ball game again."

John levered himself to his feet, Teyla hovering close in case he fell. "Which one?" he grunted.

"All of them."

"I wouldn't count on it. When I'm fully recovered." Which Rodney was betting would be whenever some fluke alien mojo suddenly disadvantaged tall freakishly-athletic ape-men. Either that or the next time John turned into a giant bug or some other animal. Hopefully something nice this time – maybe a rabbit or a deer. He snorted to himself. Sheppard would make a horrible Bambi.

Rodney hobbled over to the door, not really expecting any sort of sympathy "Well, I'll be seeing you guys. Sheppard . . ." he tried snapping his fingers, but the crutches were sort of in the way. "I need to get . . . that thing I left in your quarters."

"What's that, McKay? Your virtue?" Ronon smirked over his shoulder on the way out, Teyla grinning half amused and half in sympathy.

John just sighed, resigned, making his way into the room and lowering himself carefully onto the bed. Rodney followed, nearly falling and killing himself tripping over a golf club. "How did you survive the military?" Rodney asked, surveying the mess. "You couldn't bounce a beach-ball off those sheets, not to mention a coin," he gestured to the tangled mess of covers.

"And whose fault is that?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Oh . . ." He'd forgotten. They'd used John's room last time.

"I figured we'd just mess them up again," John said, spreading his legs until their thighs pressed together.

Rodney felt his mouth run dry. God, no matter how hot he was, John shouldn't be able to still do this to him. They'd been sleeping together for too long. Rodney leaned forward almost automatically. His mouth was dry, but John's looked invitingly wet . . . slick like those rocks had been back in the cave . . . "Hey! I'm on to you, Colonel. No trying to distract me with your . . . your manly wiles."

John licked his lips, looking down at where Rodney was already half-hard. "It seems like you're doing a pretty good job of distracting yourself."

Rodney grabbed a nearby pillow and whacked John in the head with it, careful of his bandaged shoulder.

"Hey! That's my line," John protested, trying to lean around Rodney and grab the other pillow.

"No, your line is the one where you explain to me how in the hell we survived a 30 meter drop without so much as a scratch."

John looked down at his hand, resting comfortably in a sling. "I don't know, Rodney. It was dark. I couldn't see the ground with my light and neither could you. It probably wasn't as long a fall as we thought. And it was pretty slick at the bottom – the mud could act like mattress. I think we should . . ."

"I know how long it took for my flashlight to hit. It had to be at least . . ."

"Time slows when you think you're going to die. Rodney, these things happen. I once saw a Marine just lose it and go running straight into a line of about twenty enemy soldiers without even a scratch. It's either a fluke or it's a miracle. You thank your lucky stars and then you move on. Unless you want to go back to the land of the arrow-wielding natives and their nice muddy cave and pull a Myth Busters, there isn't anything we can do about it."

"But . . ." maybe Rodney was wrong. Maybe it had just been fear and adrenaline and the whole interfering life-flashing-before-eyes thing, but, "I . . . Sheppard, I know there was a significant amount of panic involved on my part, but I think we bounced."

"We could have. A slope or a series of plateaus could have broken the fall. It still hurt like hell."

Rodney squinted. He'd have to work out the calculations later, but he supposed it could have been something like that. But then again . . . . "Why'd you lie to Ronon and Teyla then?"

"I figured it would be better if they didn't ask for the details. Rodney, I don't want to have to explain to them why I jumped off a cliff after you. That saying's supposed to be cautionary."

"Why did you? Jump off a cliff after me, I mean."

"I . . ." John turned so that they were facing each other, reaching out a hand to cup Rodney's cheek. "I meant it . . . what I said." So, not a hallucination then. Rodney: 1, voices in his head: 5 (if you counted Cadman).

"You . . ."

"Yeah." John leaned forward until his breath was tickling against the hairs of Rodney's post-infirmary shadow. "You want this, right?"

A few minutes of crushing their lips together later, Rodney came up for air long enough to pant, "Of course I want this, you idiot. I've wanted this from the beginning."

John looked pained. "I'm sorry," he said, awkwardly.

Rodney shrugged. "Better late than never . . ."

The sex was a little awkward, trying to avoid both their injuries. They tried sixty-nining, but he couldn't put pressure on his wrapped ankle, and when they tried laying on their sides, Rodney couldn't seem to get inside John without using John's shoulder as leverage. In the end, they ended up lying side-by-side just jerking each other off.

"Well, that was unsatisfying," Rodney grumbled, despite the fact that he was at least somewhat sated.

John just slowly pushed himself up so that he leaned down over Rodney, lips swollen and just inches away. "We could always make out some more."

Rodney grinned. He was tired and hurting, but he pulled John down towards him anyway. "Good plan."

---

When Rodney woke up, it was to a cold bed and an empty room. Again.

"Why am I not surprised?" he asked himself. When did Sheppard ever let anything be simple? He had to be all closed-off and stoically-tortured or he just wasn't happy. "The man is perverse."

Rodney stumbled out of bed, rubbing his eyes. "Coffee?" he asked tentatively. Maybe John's room was more responsive that his.

Oh well. Maybe Carson had some of the good stuff brewing down in the infirmary. Rodney had no idea where the man got the stuff. Even when they'd been cut off from Earth, Carson seemed to have an infinite supply of Colombian ground.

Rodney sighed . . . coffee. He yanked his shirt off and fumbled blindly around for a clean one. Coffee first and sorting out intimacy-challenged Air Force officers second.

It wasn't a long trip down to the lab, but Rodney spent the entire time thinking about John anyhow. With John it was always two steps forward and one step back. Rodney finally got the man into bed, then Chaya happened and he wouldn't even hear Rodney's professional opinion. He finally got Sheppard to admit he trusted him and then they almost ended their friendship over it. John finally admitted they're in a relationship and then left Rodney without a word the next morning.

Rodney really didn't appreciate this self-destructive streak, but then again, what did he expect from Sammy Suicide? It was like Sheppard wanted to die sacrificing himself.

And besides, how did he know this whole fiasco hadn't been another one of John Sheppard's patented deflections? Like a perfect magician, he'd have you so fixated on the charming smile and flirtatious banter that you'd miss the way he was fixing the cards behind his back.

Rodney huffed, blowing through the infirmary doors and spoiling for an argument. He'd go with a sneak attack – a stealthy grab for the coffee, a single draining sip, and a few choice insults to Carson's line of work and all of the sheep-fornication in his lineage.

But before he made it even to the coffee maker, he heard voices, soft and hissing in agitated whispers.

"I'm not sure he bought it." That was John talking.

Rodney slipped in closer, ducking behind a gurney and then moving over to the wall of Carson's office. Well, sort of . . . he blamed it on the crutches. Luckily for him, the door was jammed open just a sliver – someone had dropped a pen in just the right place to keep it from shutting, even if the two ATA genes inside had thought the walls opaque.

"But you know Rodney – you wouldn't be needing a sneakoscope to tell when the man's lying to ya." What the hell was a sneakoscope? It sounded interesting. Zelenka must've been hiding things from him again – that fuzzy little weasel.

"I know."

"You'd better watch yourself, Colonel. I broke up with Laura when she got too close." Ah, so the conspiracy was really afoot. John and Carson . . . too much hair gel must be a calling card.

"So I'm supposed to listen to a deserter lecture me about duty to my people?" Deserter? Carson couldn't even hit the target, let alone the bulls-eye. Could he really have been in the army? Then again, men in Scotland did wear skirts.

John was really angry, voice raised far above what could possibly still count as whispering. "I've sacrificed more than you'd ever know for duty. Why can't I just have this?"

Carson sighed, "Because Rodney McKay isn't the kind of person you can love and still keep secrets from."

Rodney gulped. What were they hiding? What was so big that John couldn't tell him? They saved each others' lives, trusted each other. Was there even anything about Rodney that John didn't know?

"No, he's not. But what good would it do? Everyone has a past. Why does mine have to be so special?"

"I don't think everyone else's pasts include . . ."

Include what? Rodney leaned forward anxiously, overbalancing and going careening into a supply cart, which knocked what seemed like the expedition's entire supply of bedpans onto his head.

"Ow!" His ankle twinged as he landed hard on the floor. Serious, the infirmary was no place for injured people.

Carson was already at the door, his expression frozen somewhere between concern and disgust. John, on the other hand, seemed stuck on disgust.

"Are these clean?" Rodney asked at the same time John growled, "Spying on me now, McKay?"

"No . . . no . . . I was just . . . ah . . . I was inspecting . . . looking for a curved metal surface for an experiment . . . Doctor . . . er . . . Doctor Green was just . . ."

John crossed his arms over his chest. "Dr. Green is a marine biologist."

"So?"

"So, you don't talk to the marine biologists, Rodney," Carson sighed, helping Rodney to his feet and handing him an icepack.

"Well, I wanted to ask about . . ."

Two accusatory glares settled on him.

"Oh, all right, fine! I just heard you say my name and I came over to investigate." Not the whole truth, but close enough.

John squinted, scrutinizing him. "You were still going to spy."

"I . . ." well, there wasn't a lot that he could say to that. "Well . . . yeah, all right, I was planning to spy."

John narrowed his eyes.

"I'm sorry?"

John nodded. "I'll see you later, Carson," he said, walking slowly out without looking back.

"Don't forget your medication, Colonel! I know you don't like pain meds, but they'll reduce the swelling."

While Carson was busy nagging, Rodney made a desperate grab for his crutches.

"Not so fast, laddie. I think I forgot a few shots on your last physical . . ." That tyrant.

"Vengeful isn't a good look on you, Carson, though I'm sure the sheep quake with terror. And besides, why should I feel bad about spying on you when the two of you are busy hiding things from me?"

"Well," Carson said, suddenly studying his stethoscope very intently, "did you ever consider the possibility that we're hiding things for your own good?"

"What could you possibly hide from me that would make me better off? If I don't know about something, then I can't fix it."

Carson shook his head. "Just you leave John alone. Lord knows the man's had enough to deal with already."

"But Carson . . ."

"You have to respect his wishes, Rodney. If you really care about him, that's what you'll do."

Rodney hated it when Carson got like this – all sparkling blue eyes and naïve sincerity. It was Carson's ‘I can save the world' look and Rodney wanted nothing to do with it. But Carson did get a part of it right – John was a good man, but he was stubborn as a mule. If he pushed the issue, John'd just push back harder.

"Fine," Rodney agreed, "I won't ask him about it."

That didn't cover spying and subterfuge, however.

---

Remus, suddenly aware of all the muggles surrounding him, made to pull out his wand for an easy obliviation, but James grabbed his hand to stop him. "No wand use. You can't confound the security cameras."

"The what?"

James just rolled his eyes. "So I wouldn't exactly prefer my men catching their commander in a ‘manly embrace,' but it's okay. We'll just say that I met you at school. You did an exchange at USC."

"USC?"

"The muggle school I said I went to. American, you wouldn't have heard of it. C'mon. Let's find somewhere where we can catch up."

Remus nodded. Merlin's beard, it was just so good to see James. He realized he was grinning like he'd just been the victim of an overzealous cheering charm, but he couldn't help it. It was James, the only other member of their little group left alive, Remus' best friend, lost for so many years.

He'd been so busy grinning that he'd failed to notice this amazing building they seemed to be in up until now. From the view though the window it looked like a castle, full of towers and spires and vast only made of metal and glass and floating in the middle of the ocean. "This is amazing, James."

James chuckled. "For the record, it's John. And . . . yeah, it really is."

"We're floating?"

"Cool, isn't it?" James grinned. It was a bright excited grin, even though there was a dullness to it that hadn't been there even at the height of the war.

"I suppose," Remus responded, speaking slowly – there was a wonder in James' tone too – like there were things here that were even better than magic.

It wasn't long before they reached what Remus assumed to be James' quarters. The room wasn't particularly large, but James had never needed much space. Or material objects, and it looked as though the same was true here. It was the same old James Potter.

Instead of a poster for the Chudley Cannons, he had some muggle vocalist. A bag of mallets instead of a broomstick was leaning haphazardly in the corner. No pictures (James had never had pictures – he was an only child and he'd never thought much of his parents), but there was a large stylized piece of unmoving artwork, though Remus didn't see the point of a large board with ‘hang ten' written on it. And the room was noticeably neater than James' had always been. But . . . there it was, the one thing that James Potter would never be without – a small golden ball sitting placidly on his nightstand.

Remus walked over and picked it up, tossing it up and down in the air while it was still deactivated.

James chuckled. "If you release it, you're going to have to catch it, Moony."

Remus put it down immediately. He was a fine wizard and a fair duelist, but he'd never quite mastered any motions outside of ‘swish and flick.'

"Thought so," James smirked, lowering himself carefully down onto the bed, wincing and bracing the restrained arm.

Remus pulled out his wand. "Want me to fix that for you?"

James shook his head. "No, thank you. Carson's used a few spells on me when I've been particularly bad off, but I can't heal too quickly – the muggles might get suspicious. And since when are you a mediwizard anyhow? Don't think I don't remember that time you tried to heal those scratches you gave Sirius and ended up turning his whole side purple."

Remus laughed. Sirius had been so mad, James had to tackle him and hold him down to keep him from cursing anyone. "Well, he healed, didn't he?"

"And he had to miss out on his big date in the Prefect's bathroom." James almost snorted with laughter.

"It's a good thing he did! That Rita Skeeter woman he was so enamored with . . . she went on to write for the Daily Prophet – now there's a sneaky little journalist if I ever saw one. You wouldn't believe the stuff she was printing about Harry!"

Their laughter stopped dead in its tracks. James stood up, tensed and suddenly fierce, just like Remus remembered him during the war – that first battle when he himself hid and James singlehandedly captured three Death Eaters.

"It's alright, James. I don't know the exact details of what happened, but let's just say that Harry has some very good friends to protect him."

James' eyebrows inched together with worry, his mouth going into that pouting pucker that had always made Remus crack and Lily laugh. "What kind of friends?"

Remus laughed. "Good ones. Hermione Granger, muggle born, smartest witch of her generation. And Ronald Weasley . . ."

"Ah, the Weasley clan. Last time I saw them, they had about five. Molly had a bun in the oven."

"Yes, that's the one – Ron. He's not the most talented of the bunch, but he's as good a friend to your son as you could hope. They remind me of you and Sirius, only, well . . . slightly less . . . haphazard in their mischief-making."

James laughed, face going slack and child-like in the expression that seemed to work on everyone except Remus. "Hey, that was all Sirius."

Remus surprised himself by actually snorting. "Yes, and I'm a Weird Sister. I seem to remember somebody concocting an elaborate scheme to steal all of Professor Dumbledore's socks."

"They were bright pink! I was saving the man from himself! And besides, it was Sirius that came up with the unraveling spell."

Remus shook his head.

"Speaking of Sirius, do you think we should go get him out of storage? I heard from Lieutenant Novak that somebody had smuggled a dog."

"It wasn't Sirius."

"Oh." James seemed perplexed.

"It was me."

"What?! Moony, you didn't . . . you have no right to . . ."

Remus reached out and gripped James by his good shoulder. "It's alright, I took a potion. I suppose it was after your time when it was discovered. I still turn into a wolf, but docile, in control of my actions."

James nodded. Then he bit his lip, eyes wide in sudden realization. "Sirius?"

Remus hung his head. It had been more than two years but it still hurt like a wound – a pervasive ache that he wasn't sure would ever heal. "Dead."

James stood, pacing over to the strange piece of muggle art. "Goddamnit," he whispered under his breath. "Fuck." It sounded strange – strange American accent, strange American words. His shoulders were tensed, and his hand was shaking as he ran it through his hair, but there was no giant outburst, no fits of random magic and rage and blame like there'd been when they got word of the Longbottoms. James had torn their little camp apart, and only Lily's voice, soft and commanding, had reeled him in.

Maybe he'd mellowed with age. Or, an even more frightening possibility – he was used to this kind of bad news.

"James," Remus murmured, pretending that his friend didn't flinch when he guided him back to the bed.

James' eyes flashed, no longer hiding beneath the protective sheen of glasses. "Who else?"

Remus wrung his hands. He was used to being straightforward – firm but gentle with students. But there was always something about James, whether he was being rash and boastful or brave or angry or excited, you just wanted to protect him – as though if you tried hard enough, you could make reality bend to accommodate him just how he seemed to expect it to.

"Damnit, Moony! Who else?"

Remus gulped. He felt the bitter taste of self-disgust gather on the back of his tongue as he thought: start with the less important ones. Work your way up. "Peter's dead."

James sat silently, looking away. Back in the war he might have said that the man deserved it, but Remus doubted that James could've maintained his temper into adulthood.

"Well . . ." Remus took a deep breath and then continued. "Professor Flitwick, Arthur Weasley, Amelia Bones, Cornelius Fudge – he was Minister of Magic; Hagrid," he'd almost started mentioning students – so many young ones gone before their time. But then again, James never even had the chance to know them. "Sirius' cousin Bellatrix . . . the Malfoys, some more of the staff . . . I don't think you ever knew Professor Sprout?, Mundungus – I know, not even cockroaches can live forever."

That didn't get even a chuckle.

"Wesley Prewett, Darren Dawlish – he'd become an Auror, you see; Julia Belby – Julia McKinnon, that was."

James nodded, looking quiet, but expectant. Of course he'd know that Remus would save the worst for last. "Dumbledore."

James sucked in a harsh surprised breath. "How?" he whispered.

Remus turned away. "It was war," he finished, reaching out to pull James into a stiff hug. "I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry about," James whispered, relaxing into the loose embrace after a long minute.

Remus nodded, letting his arms drop to his sides, even though there was no way he could agree. There was a lot to be sorry for, James must know that better than anyone.

---

Rodney looked at his watch. Okay, he'd given John 3 hours 47 minutes and approximately 12 seconds to get over his little . . . whatever it was – with John he could never tell. Now it was time to go find him and, well, capitalize on this new thing they had going on.

Rodney was a patient person – mostly. He could wait. He'd just have to sit around and endure all the kissing and the blowjobs and all the other benefits of finally being with John until he opened up and . . . who was he kidding? He'd probably blurt something out a few minutes into their next conversation.

Rodney shook his head, making his way towards John's quarters. The man was supposed to be resting, but that was no guarantee that he'd be there. Rodney stepped up to John's door and commanded himself with a deep breath, ‘Do not flip out on him. Do not flip out on him.'

And just as he though he had everything under control, the door to John's room swished open to reveal . . . who the hell was this and what was he doing in John's room? The guy wasn't taller than either of them, but he looked longer somehow, even more thin and lanky than John. His hair was graying and a little wild, but not in that same artfully tossed way employed by certain Air Force Lieutenant Colonels who shall not be named. He wore one of the yellow-paneled tan expedition jackets that indicated the ‘squishy sciences' and probably the most hideous shirt Rodney had ever seen (and he owned quite a few hideous shirts). Anthropologists – always trying to be more-cross-cultural-than-thou.

"Who is this?" Rodney asked, not particularly tactfully.

"I exchanged at USC," the man replied in a thick British accent.

Rodney spared him the cursory glance he reserved especially for social scientists, before turning to John, who was still looking pale and maybe a little nervous. "What are you doing with an anthropologist in your quarters?"

"None of your business, Rodney," John growled. Oh yeah, the man didn't like to be bossed around – why was Rodney always forgetting that?

Rodney sighed, turning back to the mysterious man. "USC, eh? Did you meet John at a football game?" Because painting your face red and gold and sharing a name in common with a package of condoms would clearly be something Mr. All-American Flyboy would hire someone for.

"Football?" The man asked, looking quizzical.

John laughed and slung an arm the anthropologist (the man looked like he just climbed out of some ancient tome, clearly his profession). "Rodney, this is Remus Lupin, buddy of mine from back at school. Remus, this is Dr. Rodney McKay, Chief Science Officer, astrophysicist and professional pain in my ass."

Rodney rolled his eyes. He hated being right. Pretty soon there'd be keggers and frat parties and more Doug Flutie than even when Ronon had joined the team and he and John had spent days in one of the old warship hangars throwing passes. Also . . . Pinloop? What the hell kind of name was that, even for a Brit? It sounded like a lewd sex act, or maybe a kind of prescription drug designed to propagate lewd sex acts.

"Nice to meet you, Doctor," Pinloop said, straightening up and shaking Rodney's hand. His grip was stronger than the man looked.

"Sure," Rodney replied, earning him a glare from John. "Not that nepotism isn't great and all, but what exactly are you doing here?"

Pinloop smiled. "I've been hired by Anthropology, for help with translation work."

Rodney rolled his eyes. Hole in one. "Yes, yes, very exciting. John, I was just going to do . . . that thing . . . with the . . . widgets, in my quarters, if you want to . . ." he pointed over his shoulder.

John smiled at him placidly. "Another time, Rodney. I'm gonna give Remus the grand tour. Because I'm so useful around here," he gestured to his injured arm.

"Oh," Rodney sagged, disappointed and eying the anthropologist. He wasn't much to look at and he certainly didn't live up to his porn star name, but then again, Rodney wasn't exactly in John's league either. And the man and John clearly got along. According to Ronon (which wasn't always the most reliable source, considering that he once thought Elizabeth offering him honorary American citizenship was a marriage proposal), John had once been married (though there was no official record of it). Maybe that was because gay marriage wouldn't have been legal at the time.

Rodney gulped. "Well, then I'll . . . I'll come with you."

John looked down at his feet, his little embarrassed look. "Actually, I was sort of hoping to get the chance to catch up. I haven't seen Remus in nearly seventeen years." He looked honestly apologetic, but also a little bit sneaky. What the hell was going on here?

"I . . ." Rodney was about to object when he noticed the look in John's eyes, all of the previous look of paranoia melting away. John looked happy.

John clapped him on his shoulder. "I'll be by later tonight. We'll see what we can do about your widgets." He winked, before grabbing hold of Pinloop's arm and ambling off.

Rodney could barely make out Pinloop's murmured comment, "I don't think the doctor likes me."

"Don't worry," John replied. "Rodney's default is suspicion. He'll warm up to you." Sure, if warm meant Antarctica in the dead of winter.

---

No sooner had Rodney swung off down the corridor, than James had turned them back around and into his quarters.

"I almost forgot," James sighed, looking him over. "First thing's first – we have to do something about those clothes. You've got your expedition uniform, which is good, but . . . where did you even get that shirt, Moony?"

"India. It's a formal . . ."

"It looks like a muumuu. Look, just stick to plain black shirts and you'll be fine."

Remus shrugged. James looked good in everything; Remus didn't know what the man wore his robes inside out at high society dinner parties would be worried about. "I wore one every day in the temple. They said my robes were too hot."

James shook his head. "What were you doing in India?"

"I heard there was a cure there . . . for my . . . condition. Turns out I was wrong, though. The cure was more along the lines of giving myself food poisoning so even the wolf would be too sick to eat anyone."

"Hey, if we'd know that, Sirius and I could've cured you long ago."

Remus laughed. "No thanks. After that holiday I'm never letting you near a kitchen again, not even one of those muggle things with the square of dry noodles.

"So that's where you went after the war? India?"

"For a while. It's fascinating there. Some of the old texts take a completely different angle on spellmaking. It's about the sounds of the words as much as their meaning. Most of it bordering on dark magic, but with a different flair. Ministry over there's not to organized though – hundreds of wizards out on the streets doing healings and making ropes dance like snakes and all sorts of things and they deport me when after five years they get around to checking my paperwork and find out I'm a werewolf."

James shrugged. "Go figure. Where'd you head to next?"

"Up to the border of Nepal – tried this meditation technique that kept the wolf at bay for a few cycles, but it wasn't reliable," he looked down at his hands. He could still hear those children screaming, calling out in a language unknown to him about a monster. He'd just been lucky that the wizard with him knew a good strong stunning charm. "I went through China, Romania. I met an Englishmen there – Arthur and Molly's son, actually. He told me about the Wolfsbane potion and I headed back to England. Dumbledore offered me a job, you know. Teaching. I taught your son."

"Yeah?" James asked, tentative and almost shy.

"Master of Defense Against the Dark Arts, that boy. You should've seen it, James. A Patronus in his third year."

"A Patronus? Really?"

Remus nodded, careful not to mention the circumstances under which he'd taught Harry. "Oh, yes, and you'd never guess what form it took: a stag. Like father, like son, I assume." Though James' Patronus had been a falcon, sleek and shimmering as it dove down on dementors like they were prey.

"Really?" James looked caught somewhere between pride and shame, though the man had nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn't as though he could help having been dead.

"And I haven't seen anyone more natural on a broom since well . . . you. Not that I'm particularly knowledgeable about Quiditch," and that was something that had always annoyed James and Sirius to no end, "but he was a fine Seeker. The boy could give you a run for your money. He even made the team first year. Youngest seeker in a century."

James chuckled. "Remember how badly I wanted that title?"

Remus snorted. "I thought you were going to cry when your father forbade you try out. Instead you just broke all Sirius' poor soldiers at wizard's chess and made an involuntary snowstorm in the dormitory."

"And, wow, was McGonagall mad."

"But by the time you two graduated, she was used to it."

"The two of us, Moony? I seem to remember a certain someone teaching the giant squid how to call people ‘wankers.'"

"That was only because you two wankers thought it would be fun to test your island-making spell by leaving me in the middle of the lake!"

"It was only for an hour and it saved you four hours detention with Filch. He made us clean one of the dungeons with muggle cleaning supplies."

Remus laughed. He remembered the way the two of them smelled for days after that – like rain and sneezes. Or rather, he was always sneezing around them. "But you're a muggle now. Certainly you have to do those things?"

James shook his head. "Nah. That's why I like the military. Cleaning's what Airmen are for. And in Atlantis the Ancient machines take care of things." He shrugged.

"So you like it here?"

"Yeah," James laughed. "I do."

Remus never would've thought – James Potter, the man who'd shown up in Remus' house through the Floo network, panicked because he had no idea how to help his wife's sister out with the dishes, actually enjoying life among muggles.

He looked over at James . . . John. He looked relaxed, almost happy. Funny, considering that he was not only living among muggles, but in another galaxy where there were apparently creatures that ate people's souls. Sure, the dementors did something similar, but there was always the Patronus spell . . . in the Wizarding world, the only thing you really had to fear was other wizards.

"So . . . Rodney," Remus raised his eyebrows. "What exactly are widgets?"

James ran a hand furtively through his hair. "You know, I have no idea."

"How long?" Remus asked quietly. He'd seen that special smile on James' face – the one he'd only seen in relation to Lily.

James shrugged his good shoulder. "I don't know. It's nothing serious."

Right here was where Sirius would've tackled him, forcing him down until he gave it up for the lie that it was. Remus just sighed, changing the subject. "What happened to your glasses?"

James grinned. "Muggle invention. They take this laser beam – kind of like a cutting curse – and shoot it at your eye. Moves the lens or something . . ."

"Lens?" Remus asked. As far as he knew, eyes were eyes. "You mean they put the glasses in your eye?" He supposed it could be done with some sort of transfiguration. Maybe an animagus like James could just transform his eye and nothing else.

"No, no, you have a lens in your eye already. That other thing is a contact. I know it sounds disgusting, but it's how muggles get on without mediwitches. They work on the body and not the spirit."

Interesting concept. Remus frowned. "Isn't that what Carson was always working on back in school?"

James nodded. "He's good at it too – muggle medicine, though without a few steadying charms, I doubt he'd be able practice both surgery and genetics."

Remus had never heard either of those words before. He shrugged. Muggles had strange names for things – especially American ones. Like that game of theirs – the one they called football even though they rarely touched their feet to the ball.

"You two getting along now?" Remus asked, curious. James had never liked the young Ravenclaw, even back in their schooldays. James certainly had never been prejudiced against muggles – right now he was living proof that at least someone paid attention during muggle studies, and he'd married a muggle-born, fought in the Great War, and hated Slytherin and their blood-pride more than anyone. He just didn't understand why Carson was so proud of being able to do things the muggle way. He was a wizard, after all - why did he need all that?

James shrugged. "He's a deserter."

"Some might say you are too," Remus pointed out.

"I left under orders. He left because he was scared."

"His mum called him back home. In those days it was safer to be a muggle in Scotland than a wizard in England. I don't blame her."

"Because he was a wizard! Fighting was the right thing to do, and you know it."

Remus sighed. They'd had this argument before. He wasn't eager to have it again.

"So, the real question, James. What happened to you? How did you manage to get yourself all the way out here?"

James shrugged. It was more subtle than it used to be, but it was the same macho thing from when they were kids – his ‘bludgers just bounce off me' expression. It didn't work on Remus. "By accident, mostly."

"You don't die and come back to life by accident. Not even Voldemort could manage that."

James cringed. "You mean he-who-shall-not-be-named?"

Remus' shrug was genuine. He'd forgotten that James hadn't seen the age when his own son used the word like a weapon. "He's dead. What does it matter?"

"So Harry . . ." James looked uncertain, wary, but almost painfully hopeful.

"He's fine. Back at Hogwarts now, finishing up his seventh year." Remus reached out, grabbing James' arm, surprised at the muscle on the previously wiry frame. "You can see him now, James."

"I . . ." James didn't like to let it show, but Remus could see the moisture sparkling at the corners of his eyes. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I abandoned him, Moony! I left him all alone in a world of monsters, living with those awful muggle in-laws of mine, having to fight a war against the darkest wizard of our history without even the support of a parent. He'll hate me."

Remus sighed. He'd forgotten James' dark and desperate moods – his natural optimism giving way to fatalism when looking back. "You're his father."

"He's lived his whole life as an orphan."

Remus wanted to shout or punch something or just grab James' shoulders and shake until he understood. He too had given way to this sort of self-condemnation before – when what he was and what he'd done mattered more than the person he could be. He wouldn't do it again. But then again, Remus always played the role of the reasonable one.

"Is that why you didn't come back?" he asked, knowing full well that the James Potter he knew would never go quietly.

James shook his head. "I . . . there are laws. I was dead – I was stuck on another plane of existence, forced to just sit back and watch everything going on down below. I don't remember much from my time there. When I came back, I didn't even remember that. They found me naked in the middle of a cornfield in Kansas – punishment for interfering in human affairs."

"What'd you do?"

"I don't remember clearly, but I saw Harry and you-know-who in a graveyard and he was going to . . . I couldn't let him."

Remus gasped. He remembered Harry's account of the encounter – how he and Voldemort's wands had locked and how his parents came back to give him the time to escape.

"So it wasn't really the spell then?"

James shook his head.

"Lily? Did she come back too?"

"No. Not all who die . . . her soul went into saving Harry."

"If you were in Kansas, how'd you . . ."

"I met with Dumbledore. He had a theory. I don't know if I should have listened or not, but . . . he ordered me. He asked me if I wanted to risk my son's life by interfering when I shouldn't. I couldn't . . . Dumbledore . . ."

"What was it?" Remus asked, gently, an encouraging hand on James' shoulder.

"That the reason why you-know-who and Harry were so well matched, fated against each other, was for their similarities. They were both parseltongues, clever, ambitious people. Both prideful, stubborn . . . but most importantly, they were both orphans."

Remus sucked in a sudden breath, realizing Dumbledore's manipulation – the true implications of what James was saying – that he'd deprive a boy who was possibly destined to die of his father's love because it would make him stronger.

"I was supposed to be dead and . . . even though I couldn't do it for the Ascended, I could do it for Harry. Was I wrong?" James looked uncertain. "Did it help?"

Remus looked down at his hands, biting his lip. "I don't know. Nobody knows how Harry succeeded. We're just glad that he did."

---

Carson wasn't particularly surprised when Remus Lupin walked through his door. He hadn't seen the display in the Gateroom, but he made a point of looking over the medical files of all new personnel before they arrived. And Carson knew only one person who would both claim to have lupus and list moonlight as an allergy. It was just like that lot to rely on an auto-answer-quill to fill out muggle forms instead of looking up real meanings.

"Remus," he acknowledged carefully. At school he'd never gotten along with the Gryffindors – always rushing into things, running around leaving mayhem in their wake just because they thought it might be fun. John's style of running things certainly hadn't deviated (though the kind of trouble he got into with Rodney was certainly more intellectual curiosity and less mischief than it had been with Sirius Black).

Lupin didn't look much different. His hair had grayed and he looked even more tired than he did back at the end of their last NEWT, but there was the same wary warmth in his eyes, the same reassuring half-smile.

"Carson. It's good to see you." Carson doubted it, but he smiled anyhow. Working all these years with muggles had certainly gotten him to work on his bedside manner. They hadn't been friends, but at least Remus had never openly picked on the bookish little muggle-lover.

"It's been a bloody long time, lad."

Remus nodded. "I've always wondered about you. A lot of people came back after the war was over and I always expected to see your face smiling on the cover of the Daily Prophet. You know, Slughorn was always going on about how you were going to be the next Nicolas Flamel? He's normally right about those things."

Carson shrugged, nonplussed. Maybe a few years ago, before Atlantis, he might have been stung by Remus' comment. Carson loved learning – potions, herbology, care of magical creatures, and he tolerated charms as a mediwitches' necessity, but in the end, there was nothing that beat hands on experience. He'd never truly understood a healing spell until his freshman year anatomy class at a muggle med school, hands buried in a cadaver. There was just so much to the basics that magic had skipped over in the rush towards product.

So maybe his knowledge could have helped a few wizards. It probably would have helped in the war effort, but wizards, barring accidents that generally tended to be their own stupid fault, were a healthy lot. They lived long full lives. They conjured themselves a steak dinner if they were starving, a simple remedy if they had a cold. They just didn't need his help the way muggles did.

"I came here," Carson replied tiredly. It had been an easy choice.

Lupin nodded, looking around. The man probably couldn't come close to understanding half of the things in this room, but that didn't stop him from looking with a gleam of curious interest – a child visiting a museum for the first time, making up stories before the words tumbled out of the tour guide's mouth.

"Why don't yeh take a seat? Let me get a sample?" While he had him here, he might as well confirm what he already suspected – the correlation between the Ancient gene and wizardry. There were eight of them with the natural gene on Atlantis, plus Colonel O'Neill (from one of those crazy American non-practicing families). Only Carson and John were actual wizards, but they had the strongest expression of the gene. The others all possessed some element of the recessive in one or more of the group of loci that coded for the phenotypic expression of what they called ‘the gene.' Maybe they were squibs, though there was no way to know without testing within the Wizarding world. If Lupin expressed ‘the gene' as much as John did, it'd certainly confirm a few things.

Lupin sat, swinging his legs off the end of the bed like a child . . . or like Colonel Sheppard. Carson moved over to him, pulling his sleeve up (which received a curious look), tying the tourniquet and pulling out the needle.

"What are you doing with that?" Lupin asked with a half-crazed wild look in his eye.

Carson had forgotten – werewolves could be tetchy about anything involving blood.

"I'm just going to insert the needle into your arm, draw out a bit of blood. Everything's sterile, we all wear gloves. It's perfectly safe."

Lupin still looked wary, but he allowed Carson to collect the sample, hopping off the bed the second he had it out and inserted into the Ancient analysis machine.

"So how are you?" he asked, almost by default. Professionalism was always something Carson had managed.

"Fine, thank you."

"So the war's over."

"That it is."

"What do ya plan on doing now?" Carson brought up the analysis on his computer, scrolling down the mass of numbers. Lupin looked over his shoulder, but didn't seem particularly interested.

"The same as anyone, I suppose. Settle down, start a new life. I taught at Hogwarts for a time and rather enjoyed it. I got to know Madame Maxime in the war, perhaps Beaubaxton would take me."

Carson raised an eyebrow. "Why not just go back to Hogwarts?"

Lupin sighed, "They'd never allow it. I don't think you ever knew, but I'm a werewolf."

Carson nodded. "John told me."

"I guess he figured you'd never see me again. Someone leaked it – Severus, no doubt. Parents don't want a werewolf in charge of their students."

Carson shook his head. "Bloody shame." Lupin had always been a smart boy and a natural teacher (how James and Sirius would have made it through History of Magic without him, Carson had no idea). "Even after all that's happened, they still won't let you?"

That was one thing Carson liked about the muggle world – yes, prejudice still existed in many parts, but there were places, at least, where blood mattered not at all. Even the most noble of wizards . . . Dumbledore, even, couldn't see an idea for simply its worth, not where it came from.

"As long as I am what I am . . . no."

"Fools," Carson remarked, pulling up the analysis of Lupin's ATA gene. From what he could tell, it was coded very similar to Sheppard's, but they'd have to check the phenotypic expression anyhow. He smiled. "Well, I think you've just confirmed a pet theory of mine. The part of you that makes you a wizard is related to the people who built this place. Did you know that Morgan le Fay and Merlin walked these very halls?"

Carson wasn't so in awe of it as John was, and neither so much so as Lupin, who'd always appreciated the history of magic (though even he sometimes fell asleep during Professor Bins' lectures). "Amazing," he looked around, awed by the gadgets and technology that he previously hadn't been, seeming to examine Carson's Earth-based microscope with fascination. Carson didn't bother to tell him that Merlin hadn't touched that, certainly not stroked it reverently that way.

"I'd like to do some testing, just to confirm, of course. The genes . . . erm . . . the parts of your blood that control . . . things . . . well, we can read them, but the meaningful part is actually the proteins that . . ."

Lupin had this deer in the headlights look that might have been funny if Carson hadn't found it slightly pathetic – he still had trouble reconciling the power of wizards with their ignorance. "Never mind. The important thing is that you turn a few things on. I'll see if I can get Rodney to . . ."

"Dr. McKay?"

Carson nodded.

"Is there anyone else?"

"Yes, I'm sure Radek would be willing."

"It's just that Dr. McKay doesn't like me very much. He keeps glaring and saying something about the temperature in my room if I don't ‘back off' – of what, I'm not sure. I did have to use a warming charm yesterday, but . . ."

Carson sighed, rolling his eyes. It was just like Lupin to assume the best when possibly the most capable (and jealous) man on the base was threatening him. "Oh, that's just Rodney. He's jealous of all the time you're spending with Colonel Sheppard. Probably thinks the two of you are involved and is plotting his revenge at this very moment."

"So he and James are serious then?"

"Looks like. God help us all," Carson mumbled, going back to his equipment. He'd see what he could do about this whole werewolf problem. It couldn't be much different than Colonel Sheppard turning into a giant bug, now could it?

---

Draco Malfoy held his head high. He didn't run a nervous hand through his hair or look down at his black silk robes or examine himself in the mirror. He knew he looked impeccable, even if that was the only thing he did know.

The courtroom was down deep in the bowels of the Ministry, strategically placed at the end of a dark corridor, long and foreboding, high ceilings designed to make you shrink in the face of justice. Draco stood tall, walking proud (Malfoys were always proud), flanked by two Aurors whose names he hadn't bothered to remember.

They didn't scare him. And neither did the ministry. After the Dark Lord, reality seemed muted; just the smallest spark of anger in his great consciousness and all around him suffered. These Ministry dolts would trip over their own bureaucracy long before they reached even that point.

Draco waited for one of the Aurors to open the door for him, ignoring the flashing of wizarding cameras, the pinched accusatory faces of speculative onlookers, the hate in the eyes of all the righteously naïve bystanders whose only knowledge of the war was that it added a twinge of fear to their otherwise boring lives.

He gave the cameras his best attitude, sneered right back at the glaring faces and took his seat at the front of the room, not even flinching as the restraints wrapped easily around his wrists and ankles.

"Draco Malfoy," a voice boomed down from the tall central podium before him, like a God passing down his commands from on high. Draco could just make out the grizzled old face of Rufus Scrimgeour staring down at him accusingly, a bellicose fire burning in his eyes as he shook his lion-like mane back from his face.

Draco stared placidly up at him. If he'd been a muggle, he might have questioned the mixture of the executive and the judiciary, but wizards, especially pure-blooded ones, could not be bothered by the governance of the multitudes.

"You are charged with treason, conspiracy to murder, violence against wizard-kind, muggle-baiting and torture, use of Unforgivable Curses, and unauthorized under-age sorcery."

Draco almost laughed at the last one. So what? Were they going to charge their precious Potter too? And the weasel? And all the goody-two-shoes that had fought on the so-called side of light? Draco snorted. He doubted it. Draco was not fool enough to claim that his side had not done horrible things in the war, but at the very least, they were consistent.

The trial seemed to pass by quickly, almost beyond Draco's interest. They would declare him guilty no matter what, that was for certain. McNair'd been sentenced to execution the day before, and Crabbe's father the day before that. Draco's own parents were already dead – his father killed in the final showdown and his mother by the Dark Lord, as punishment. There wasn't a lot of hope for any of the old families. Why keep them around when the victors could divide up their ancient property as the spoils of war? There could not be victory without spoils.

"Do you deny that you tortured those muggles? You dropped one from the height of a Quidditch goalpost."

"I don't deny it," Draco replied evenly, not even sure who it was that he was responding to. "But if I hadn't, the Dark Lord would have killed my mother, my father."

There were murmurs in the crowd. It sounded as though one woman said, "And we would have been glad to have been rid of him."

Draco's jaw clenched. He'd never been under the delusion that his father as a saint, but Draco's world was lonely, empty now without him. But did that matter to these people? No, of course not. Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater; he couldn't have been a very good father. His son should've been glad to be rid of him. Except he wasn't. Harry Potter wasn't the only orphan of this war – just because Draco's father was an enemy didn't mean it hurt any less.

"So you're saying that you were coerced?" a small hawkish looking witch to the right enquired.

"Yes." So Draco wasn't an upstanding moral citizen, willing to sacrifice everything to fight against the bad things in this world. That didn't mean that he should be killed – head chopped off with an axe by some contracted squib, unable to use the death to splinter his soul. Draco shook his head. The ministry claimed that a wizard's life was worth no more than a muggle's, but did a soul matter any less because its breaking could harm only a small few?

The witch nodded. "We may be willing to grant you leniency, considering your proximity to Riddle and your youth, but . . . the path to good must be a conscious choice, my boy. To fall unequivocally to terror without even the attempt to resist is just as dangerous as the will to power."

Draco disagreed – what had all of those lame ministry pamphlets been then? And what about the arrests of those so far from Death Eaters that they probably couldn't even recognize a snake if it curled around their big toe?

"Can you offer some instance in which you did not simply bend to Tom Riddle's will?"

To not bend to the Dark Lord's will when living day in and day out in his presence? This woman couldn't even begin to understand . . . they were all just worker bees in a vast hive, their free will as much of a farce as this pathetic spectacle they were engaged in at this very moment. These people couldn't possible understand the many flavors of fear – the stifling sparkling of the Dark Lord's anger, the constant tingle of paranoia, the desperate race against failure.

Draco felt the mark burned black into the pale flesh of his arm twinge. Only those truly marked by darkness could fully understand.

"I slowed the process down when I could. I was quick to identify the mistakes of others – so he would discard possible servants. I surrendered when the time came." Draco closed his eyes, trying not to remember that mudblood looking down at him over his Auntie Bella's body, eyes flashing with challenge, daring him to move and let her finish him.

Rufus Scrimgeour, who had been pacing agitatedly but still not seeming to pay much attention before this, stopped at this, turning as he bellowed, "And how are any of these more than acts of cowardice? Slowing progress? By how much? Turning others in – just another way to climb the ladder. And surrendering . . . you call tossing your wand away to gain your life an act of good?"

Draco gulped. What more was there to say? The public wanted to never live in fear that any of the Death Eaters might follow in the path of their master. They wanted the darkness excised – as though there could ever be a world that acted independent of power. Whatever Draco said here – they would condemn him. He was just as doomed as his parents in the end. His bloodline had always been what defined him. Why, in death, should it be any different?

"He did act with courage," a voice interrupted. Chairs creaked as people turned, punctuating the familiar voices' statement with a gasp. Draco could not turn around, but he heard the whisper galloping wildly through the crowd.

"Harry Potter . . ." he murmured. "To the bloody rescue." His day just kept getting worse.

---

Remus bounced on his heels, half sprawled out on James' bed. Yes, he understood that his old friend had a life here, and apparently a boyfriend (not that this was particularly uncommon for wizards – no matter what strange rules the muggles had about it). But he didn't belong here. He couldn't exactly spend time making friends with the rest of the linguistics department – not when he didn't understand what they were talking about half the time. If the history of wizardry had been half as bloody as the history of the ancient muggle world, nobody would've been surprised by Voldemort's arrival on the scene.

But, regardless of what his colleagues might believe, Remus was learning a lot from these muggles. It was clear that these Ancients – who had built this city and written its history in the language of magic, had been a kind of proto-wizards. They were definitely connected by bloodline – that was positively the case (well, as far as Carson could tell with his blood sacrificing spells). And they had been just as obsessed with eternal life as the last of Salazar Slytherin's heirs had been.

Remus shook the day's discoveries from his head. He'd speak to James about the true origins of the Wraith at a later date - if James ever showed up, of course.

He pulled out his wand, "Tempus atlanti," he flicked it laconically. It'd taken a while to figure out that he'd have to adjust the time spell for the different timekeeping system of this planet.

John had promised that he'd be back from the ‘lab' with Rodney about an hour and a half ago. He briefly considered using the strange muggle communications device (an interesting alternative to the Floo network, he supposed, though a lot smaller than a fireplace). But, then again, did he really want to interrupt if they weren't really in ‘the lab?'

Remus chuckled. He'd forgotten how James got when he was smitten. With a shake of his head, he stood, walking past the muggle artwork to the table next to James' bed and the strange curved black wand sitting there. He'd seen Major Lorne point one into the Stargate the other day, heard the loud crack that usually signified a spell gone wrong. He ran his finger along the side of it, feeling slick metal, hard where a wand was soft and pliable and organic.

There was something powerful there, though, and it had Remus so entranced that he didn't even hear the door swish open and James enter.

"Don't touch that!" James shouted, reaching out and snatching the loud black wand away. "It's dangerous."

"It's loud," Remus affirmed.

James sighed, pulling out the smaller wand and pointing it a one of the potted plants in the corner – a boom like an exploding Snap sounded and then the pot shattered.

"Reparo," Remus remarked idly, turning away before he could see the pot repair itself. The wand wasn't so great – a Reducto charm could be just as effective.

James sighed, walking over to the pot and pulling out a small roundish fragment of metal. He dropped it into Remus' hand.

"This broke that?" Remus asked, incredulous.

"At high speeds this thing can break you too – tear through flesh like it was a Christmas pudding."

Remus shrugged. "You could probably deflect it with a shield charm."

"A shield charm will stop the Unforgivables too. The difference is that with this," James held up the small black wand, "you just have to press a button. You can do Avada Kedavra and not even mean it."

Remus gulped. He'd never thought much of muggles and their funny little wars – as though territory and that shiny black potion they pulled out of the ground really meant that much. He'd never thought . . . well, he'd never taken them that seriously, not when they walked about without ever knowing that there was this great evil out there, wanting to kill them just for the blood that ran in their veins – and more than able to do it, too.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim carved wooden box. It was one of Ollivander's (though the man himself had disappeared with the war, Dumbledore had left it in a secret compartment in his office, saved just for James).

"Ebony and dragon's heartstring. Picked specially for you."

---

Rodney found them on the firing range. He'd had to resort to the city's sensors (and the way he'd programmed them to follow the subcutaneous transmitters of each expedition member). On an ordinary day, it'd be one of the first places he'd check, but with John's shoulder wound still in the healing phase, he'd catch hell from Carson being anywhere near it.

But there he was, slouched back against the wall, eyes smoldering behind a pair of safety goggles. Pinloop was the one firing the gun, one arm steady before him. He hit the target every single time.

Rodney gaped. The man looked like he might be blown over by a loud recoil, but there he was, firing a gun with an intensity that reminded him far too much of John.

When the target had been sufficiently obliterated, he lowered the gun, pulling off the glasses and tucking them into his pocket.

"You're a natural," John said, nonplussed.

"Not that different than a wand," Pinloop replied, equally unenthusiastic.

Wand? Was that like the British word for flashlight? Rodney'd have to ask Carson sometime.

It was about then that Pinloop turned and noticed him, reaching for his pocket. John moved on him then, griping his arm and whispering something that sounded like, ‘oblivion.' Rodney gritted his teeth, noticing how close they stood together, how John, who cringed whenever anyone except Rodney tried to touch him, was voluntarily co-inhabiting another person's space.

"Dr. Pinloop, that's um . . . you're a good shot, I see." He was a lot better shot than Rodney, that was for sure. But in all fairness, Rodney had always had a mild case of astigmatism - made shooting hard.

"It's Lupin," the man corrected with a smile, completely unfazed. "But you can call me Remus, if you'd prefer."

Rodney narrowed his eyes. He'd just finished reading over Pinloop's personal file – what there was of it. Yes, he'd transferred to USC from Oxford where he studied linguistics and ethnomusicology (which would have been wonderful if Oxford had an ethnomusicology degree in the 1980s). He'd grown up in some city Rodney didn't know existed. He'd gone to some private boarding school that Rodney had never heard of. And he now taught at some little liberal arts college that Rodney didn't care about (liberal arts was a waste of oxygen in his honest opinion . . . and paper too). But the strange part was that Rodney didn't know a single University (liberal arts and conservative conservatories, even) that would hire a professor who'd never published. It was just absurd.

He squinted. Considering the man's supposed origins (and how in the hell did one learn Latin, Sanskrit, Mandarin, and Phoenician in Liverpool anyhow? He had to be something else . . . John's secret ex-husband? Part of the strange society of secret handshakes and fuzzy hair that John and Carson seemed to be constantly engaging in? Whatever it was, it wasn't academia.

"Well, Regis, the point is . . ."

"Remus."

"The point is that Cadman's team just uncovered a possible ZPM storage site, and with Corrigan down with the flu and Parker's team out on some crazy hunt for the answer to life, the universe and everything, and all the ‘cultural' people completely useless in technical language, we were thinking to recruit one of the newbies. Carson says you have the gene. And since you're such an excellent shot . . ."

"He's not going," John interrupted, in his ‘because I say so' voice.

Rodney glared. "He signed up for fieldwork in another galaxy, Sheppard, and he's like Terminator with the terrified paper target. He'll be fine."

"But . . ." Sheppard began, only to have Regis silence him with a look. "Fine," he gritted out, glaring at both of them in equal measure.

At the briefing two days later, Rodney was not at all surprised to learn that he, Sheppard, Ronon, and Teyla would be replacing Lorne's team as Dr. Pinloop's escort. It figured.

---

Ronon did not like Dr. Lupin. Aside from the fact that he kept whispering to Sheppard about Ronon being half of a ‘giant,' there was something about him. His movements were graceful in walking – long and loping like an animal's, but he had the scent of too many books – like McKay, but not afraid enough. He wandered around like a few of the newer Marines who seemed to have come to this galaxy thinking that they could tame it, which was something that not even the Ancestors had managed.

Ronon grumbled, taking a seat next to McKay on a particularly comfortable-looking boulder outside of the ruins. It was a nice day, though that was no reason to let his guard down. Still, Ronon had noticed McKay's hostility, tension following him around like the stink of a warblat hog. Ronon wasn't big on team dynamics, but if he didn't pacify McKay soon, the hike back to the jumper would be a very long one.

"You're tense," he said, staring out into the bushes.

"Of course I'm tense. Did you see the size of those mosquitoes back there? I'm probably already being infected by Pegasus malaria as we speak."

Ronon took a whiff of chemical-tainted air, wrinkling his nose. "You used enough of your bug repeller."

"It's not 100% foolproof," McKay sulked, one hand holding a powerbar, the other his data slab. "Not that you'd care. Mosquitoes only bite those with an IQ over ninety. I'm sure you're perfectly safe."

Ronon snorted. He was used to McKay insulting his intelligence, just not with the same distracted stress in his voice. "You're mad."

"I'm not."

"Did Sheppard have sex with Dr. Lupin?"

"What?" McKay rounded on him, almost dropping the data slab and getting chocolate on his lip, gaping at Ronon like that.

Ronon shrugged. "Sheppard likes him. You don't. Like that Chaya woman."

"You weren't even here then!"

"People talk."

"And if Sheppard was sleeping with him, why would I care? He's a grown man. He can sleep with whoever he wants."

Ronon wasn't exactly sure how the Earthers liked to respond to obvious lies, but he'd recently watched a box-picture with Lieutenant Cadman about a blonde girl with a lot of clothes, so he said, "Duh."

McKay collapsed back against the rock. "You have no idea how much I hate you."

Ronon could never tell if McKay meant this as an insult or a declaration of love, so he shrugged. "Sheppard wouldn't betray you, McKay. You can relax."

McKay looked over his shoulder longingly, where Sheppard and Lupin were discussing a large stone tablet, laughing even as they traced the symbols carved into the rock. "This is why I do the thinking and you do the shooting."

And with that, he stood, walking over and into the conversation about something called ‘Ancient Runes.'

Ronon stood, stalking around the perimeter. There wasn't a lot to do on missions like these, which was why Sheppard's team rarely did them. But Sheppard had insisted that they go on this one. Dr. Lupin had trained with him back on Earth and Sheppard was very protective. That was fine. Only next time, Ronon was not coming along.

The ruins weren't very big, so it wasn't long before he ran into Teyla, also patrolling.

"Ronon," she said, eyes flickering to meet his, before returning to her surroundings. "Are they making progress?"

"Slowly," Ronon grumbled. "They were arguing about ‘numerology.'"

Teyla looked as perplexed as he was.

"McKay thinks it's voodoo. Sheppard disagrees."

"So it will be some time before they finish."

"McKay thinks Sheppard is having sex with Dr. Lupin."

"So it will be a great deal of time before they finish." Teyla sighed. "Rodney must learn that John may have friends outside of the team, even if all of us do not like him." She gave Ronon a pointed, scolding look.

"There's something strange about him."

He expected a lecture about tolerating the Earthling's strange habits or supporting Sheppard when McKay got pissy around him, but instead Teyla sighed. "I agree. But he is John's friend and we must respect that."

Ronon nodded and turned to make his way back into camp. It was odd, though, that in all their time speaking of a many of Earth's customs, McKay's past as the ‘king geek' and the history of Teyla's people, and Ronon's own training on Sateda, they never spoke about Sheppard's friends, the place he called home, his parents. Perhaps it was the fact that Earth was so different from Ronon's world, but this man, Dr. Lupin, just didn't seem how Ronon would've pictured it. He didn't even like football.

Ronon was just entering hearing range of the end of one of McKay's long rants about why a set of energy numbers did not mean that the Wraith only possessed partial souls (Ronon was unaware that physics had anything to do with souls, but what did he know?). He looked over towards the pillars where he wasn't sure he'd seen any numbers, when he saw it – a flash of movement just outside his vision.

His weapon was raised in a second, heart pounding even as he took calm steady breaths. Whatever it was had chosen a good hiding place, nestled between a set of boulders. Ronon advanced with quiet deliberate steps, hearing Sheppard shush McKay off to his side.

Ronon approached the rock, hearing Sheppard whisper to Teyla over the radio. The thing was dark, almost a shadow, but with a strange boney membrane stretched between its limbs like a carel rodent.

"Don't move," Ronon commanded. And it didn't. It just stared at Ronon with piercing red eyes, mesmerizing him until he heard McKay shriek behind him.

His weapon was set to stun, so Ronon felt no remorse in taking the shot, even if the creature had not budged. Ronon whirled around to see more creatures standing in a on outcropping above the entrance to the ruins. They shrieked right back, perfectly mimicking the timber of McKay's shout.

Sheppard had his weapon firing, one of them already shot down next to where McKay was sprawled out on his back, moaning and clasping a gash on his arm. Ronon didn't hesitate to rush forward, firing all the way, listening to Teyla over his shoulder providing suppressive fire at the creatures Ronon could hear crunching through the trees.

Dr. Lupin, too, was firing, looking confused when his handgun ran out of ammunition. Ronon picked up McKay's fallen pistol and tossed it to him, as the man was down for the count, moaning and writhing on the ground.

Like those ‘clowns' that Sheppard always talked about, the black things just kept coming, forcing the group into a tight defensive huddle over McKay's fallen body.

When all four handguns had run out of ammunition, Dr. Lupin turned his attention to the lifesigns device. Ronon didn't stop to note that he also had the touch of the Ancestors, only that he gasped when he looked at the display.

"James!" he shouted. "There's no way we can hold them. Let me . . ."

"No!" Sheppard shouted. "I'm going for the jumper. Stay here and lay cover fire!"

Ronon didn't need to be told twice. He spun around, taking out a few more shadowy figures as Sheppard forced himself down away from the mouth of the ruins and in the opposite direction of the jumper. There was no way he could have made it through the seeming wall of darkness above them.

It wasn't long after Sheppard left that Ronon heard the stutter of one of the Earth weapons jamming up. He looked up at Teyla, just a second before a mass of dark things broke the ranks, swarming around Teyla, lifting her up above their heads, kicking and screaming all the way.

"Teyla!" Ronon shouted, even as he fired madly into the crowd, holding off the rest as they carried her away. They were being slowly surrounded, but the creatures now seemed focused on taking Teyla, their reasons unclear.

"I can hold them off," Lupin shouted, voice much more steady that McKay's would have been in the situation. "Go after her!"

Lupin didn't have a weapon, and Ronon still didn't like him, but there was an intensity to his voice, a command that seemed to almost echo in Ronon's head, filling him with confidence, the desire to please. He trusted Lupin. He would do whatever he said.

And with that, he took off running into the forest, up in the direction that they'd taken Teyla.

Ronon kept firing, gunning them down, one by one. He had no idea what Lupin was doing back at the ruins, but it was working, because no more of the creatures seemed to be appearing. He had to be careful not to hit Teyla, who was now writing and moaning just as McKay had been. But in these conditions, Ronon was a sure shot. They had no weapons to fire back at him, and they'd taken his friend. It wasn't long before he was running up to Teyla, trying to calm her frantic shouts, soothe her enough to carry her back to the others.

It was then that he saw it, another flash of motion, but this time from another animal – all rich brown fur where the other creatures had been black. It was tall, much bigger than they had been, a crown of hooked branches resting upon its head and wise, familiar eyes.

It was limping, a bloody gash across one flank, a gash from falling against something sharp, Ronon would guess.

The creature stared at him for one long moment before dashing off into the forest, injured limb hardly limiting its long easy bounds.

Ronon took a moment to be mesmerized before lifting Teyla onto his shoulder and running back towards the ruins.

Later, Ronon didn't connect the creature in the forest with Sheppard's slight limp or the box-picture the Marines later showed him with the guys who fought in the war in the jungle and mined some black mineral and shot animals for fun.

He was too busy worrying about his two teammates laid up in the hospital and later with how Lupin had managed to incapacitate a whole field of strange black creatures without a single weapon.

---

Ronon wasn't particularly a hard man to find. Remus asked a few of the passing Marines, and a cute blonde woman named Laura pointed him in the direction of the training room. She made him miss Tonks. "Just follow the sounds of manly grunting and bones being crushed and that's where he'll be," she remarked casually.

Sure enough, there were suspiciously bone-crunching sounds coming from one of the rooms that the expedition had set aside as a gym. Remus approached warily, surprised as usual when the doors opened for him automatically – there were many self-opening doors in Hogwarts, but most of them were a lot more . . . finicky.

Remus entered just in time to see a young man wearing the green spotted outfit worn by the military go flying across the room. He winched when the poor man landed with a crunch.

Ronon grinned and Remus tried not to shudder. There was something about that man, as friendly as he might be. There was a certain feral quality to him: a wildness in his eyes that spoke to a familiar pull deep in Remus' chest. He tried not to think about it.

"Lupin," the man said.

"Mr. Dex," Remus acknowledged. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"

The man grunted, picking up a towel and wiping a small sheen of sweat of his brow. In the corner, the marine struggled to his feet and said, "You're not interrupting anything, Sir. In fact, I was just . . ." he pointed the door and scurried away, hunched over one shoulder.

"Are you all right?" Remus asked with concern. The half-giant didn't seem to be paying much attention.

"I'm good," the soldier said with a wince.

"Next week, Waterman?" Ronon's tone did not allow for argument.

"Yes, Sir."

When the man was out of sight, Ronon pointed. "Sheppard likes me to keep an eye on the lazy ones."

Strange, since as far as Remus could remember, James was one of the lazy ones. He'd never had to work at anything a day in his life (well, except maybe History of Magic, but only because he spent most of it passing notes with Sirius or mooning over Lily).

Catching Remus' look, Ronon smirked. "I train with Sheppard four times a week."

Remus wanted to be friendly and conspiratorial, he really did, but he'd rather just get this over with. He'd already done Dr. McKay back on the planet, now only Ronon remained. "I wanted to show you something."

Remus reached into his pocket, faster going for his wand than Ronon had been going for one of the knives James said the man kept in his hair.

"Obliviate!" he yelled, careful to target the particular memory, the fact that Remus had been alone with no weapons, the hunt into the forest where James had said they'd seen each other, this most recent conversation.

He sighed, spinning on his heels and heading for the door.

Only to have James walk straight into him on his way in. Just his luck.

"Moony? What are you doing here?"

Remus didn't really have time to be flushed or embarrassed or make excuses. James was a smart man. He took one look at Remus and the unconscious figure on the floor behind him before his jaw tightened in anger and he cast a quick spell of "Muffliato!"

"You didn't," he growled, stalking past Remus to help his friend into a more comfortable position, sprawled unconscious as he was on the floor.

"He saw you, James. He knew I didn't have a weapon to fight off all those wood sprites! What was I supposed to do?"

James had the big man resting against the wall, his jacket beneath the man's head. "You were supposed to let me handle it. He's an alien. He doesn't even know what a deer is. And we could have come up for an explanation for the other thing – you've got the gene. It could've been something in the ruins. You didn't have to . . ." he gestured to guy slumped next to him.

But he did. Sure, Remus didn't like having to obliviate muggles. They were people, not toys to be played around with as wizards pleased. But secrecy was something their society held dear and when there wasn't any other option, yes he did believe in it. There were just some things you couldn't let slip. But there was still that reckless streak in James – the one that thought that the rules stopped applying when he wanted them to.

Remus took in a deep breath. "When performed correctly obliviation is a perfectly harmless technique. It's ministry standard . . ."

"The ministry isn't here. And you of all people should know that just because they approve something, it isn't necessarily right. Here, it isn't . . . look, how would you feel if someone could just take away your memories – even the bad ones?"

Remus sighed. There had been attempts after the war – mediwitches in back-allys offering precision obliviation. Remus remembered the taste of blood on his lips, gritty and metallic, powerful too. He shook his head, trying to dispel it. He'd never even considered getting rid of those memories, no matter how terrible. "I'm sorry."

James sighed, rising. "I know." He patted Remus' shoulder. "It's a different world out here. I'm . . ." he looked down at his hands. James had always been all bluster, all charm, horrible at discussing his feelings. "I'm different."

Remus nodded. They'd all changed. He had Tonks; James had his new very-annoying muggle lover; Harry was growing up, far too wise for his years. But that didn't mean that he loved James any less. It didn't . . . it couldn't mute all the time they'd spent together, the instant connection of just knowing someone, no matter how much they'd changed.

"Come back," Remus implored.

"There's nothing for me there," James said quietly. He gestured to the city around them, all metal and sleek mechanical curves where James' world should be stone and mortar and tradition, breathing with magic. "We're at war."

"And peace somehow makes our world less valid? You're a wizard, James. You can't deny that. Weren't you the one who was always telling me that?"

"Some people do."

"I'm not talking about a half-blood who never really wanted to be a wizard in the first place! Or some crazy American non-practitioners! I'm talking about someone who was born a wizard, married a witch, fought in our war, gave his life for it!"

"I gave my life to protect Harry!" James shouted, face red and angry.

"And he needs you to do more than that!" It was rare that Remus really yelled, but James just didn't understand. His own parents had been distant at best – Gryffindors but proud of their heritage, not much different than Sirius' family before the war. And he'd barely had the chance to get to know Harry before he died. Even if James Potter knew more of sacrifice than he did of a father's real job, there was no question that if ever Harry needed someone, it was now.

"He's lived without me this long, Remus. It's one thing to grow up an orphan and another to know that your father left you to fight the most evil being of our time all by yourself!"

"You yourself told me that you didn't have a choice. Harry's a smart boy. He'll understand that." Remus wanted to talk about Harry's capacity for forgiveness, his ability to still love after all that was taken from him: the fact that he'd not just survived, but strived with a moral compass as strong as his parents'. But he couldn't say those things to James, not when he'd gotten to know Harry and James hadn't.

James calmed from his anger, the sense of magic in the air slowly fading. "I would have given anything to be there for him, Remus, but I'm not the same man anymore. I'm a muggle now."

"And that's so different? Harry won't care. You're his father."

"I'm different in other ways too," James whispered.

"Is this about Dr. McKay?" Remus asked, tentatively. Only James would be able to summon guilt over cheating after his wife had been dead for 17 years. "Because I doubt Harry would expect you to be celibate."

"That's not it, Remus . . . it's just that I died. I'm not sure I should go back."

Remus nodded. There had been magical charms – James' will had gone into effect nearly immediately, his wand shattered. Even though they'd never found a body (as happened from time to time), he had been dead. There was no telling what kind of backfire there might be if he somehow negated that status.

And there was still the matter that the only other wizard ever to return from a similar state was Lord Voldemort, and the last thing the Wizarding world needed right now was proof that Tom Riddle's quest for eternal life might not have been in vain. James would be faced with all sorts of accusations, scandal even, thrusting him into a limelight that he'd always been able to deftly avoid where his son could not.

But then, there was Harry. Remus hated to use it, but he reached out, clasping James' arm, "I wouldn't ask this of you if it weren't important. Harry hasn't been the same since the final confrontation. Nobody can get through to him and . . ."

James' hazel eyes flashed with a sudden sting of pain, looking over Remus as though he might find the answer painted there. "Fine. I'll go."

Remus didn't tell him that he hoped that he might stay. Best friends and fathers didn't grow on trees, after all. The expedition would find another muggle to replace him.

---

Rodney ignored Caldwell's raised eyebrow as he stalked off down the corridor, duffel-bag in hand. The rest of the crew knew not to question him – not in this rusty bucket of bolts. He was surprised that hiccupping woman could manage to find her ass with both hands, let alone the wherewithal to actually keep this thing spaceworthy.

"Dr. McKay?" Caldwell asked, mouth in that grim line that indicated the bug up his ass was lodging a protest against the disruption of his precious routine (the only way you got to be essentially a grocery delivery man with an intergalactic space ship was by being the most anal apple in the barrel, Rodney had decided).

"What? I'm not allowed personal leave? I'll have you know that with the work I do for the SGC, Earth, and the universe at large I should . . ."

"Be crowned king of all existence?" Caldwell sneered. Rodney hated that man. "I have no problem with you taking personal leave, but in order for my crew to make preparations we have to be notified in advance."

Rodney snorted. "Please, I checked with Hermiod: the oxygen scrubbers are only operating to 35% capacity, the mess is well-stocked, and you don't have to worry about quarters, because I'll be sharing with Colonel Sheppard."

"Dr. McKay, I don't want to ask but . . ."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Then don't. I've shared a tent with him offworld. I can deal with his snoring. Besides, the number of times I've saved him and that ridiculous head of hair, he owes me."

Caldwell looked suspicious. Or constipated. But then again, Caldwell always looked constipated. Maybe he'd been eating those Asgard protein cubes. "I'll just check this with Dr. Weir," he grumbled, as though that was any sort of threat. Rodney'd dealt with Elizabeth by saying, ‘I'm going to Earth for a few weeks. Zelenka's in charge. If you say anything, I'll write what I really think about everyone in my next round of performance reviews.' Elizabeth hadn't even paused before saying, ‘I'm glad you're taking some time to spend with your family, Rodney.'

Rodney nodded to Caldwell and strode off down the corridor, overriding the lock on Sheppard's door with barely a thought. Maybe he'd catch them in there . . . doing unspeakable things to each other, or whatever stiff-necked Brits did for fun. Maybe they played naked cribbage or read Victorian pornography or something.

Instead, he found John lounging in his bed, playing sudoku on his computer. It figured. When he looked up to meet Rodney's eyes he seemed surprised if not flustered.

Rodney dumped his bag on the upper bunk, ignoring the way John was gaping at him. "Sorry about the last minute. Jeannie sent me a letter with the Daedalus. Madison has her first piano recital in a few weeks and I thought I'd . . . do the Uncle thing." It was a complete and utter lie.

John smiled at him. "Are you sure you're not just here to spy on me and Remus?"

"Um . . ." Rodney looked down at his shoes. "No?"

John sighed. "Do you really have Madison's piano recital?"

Rodney shook his head. He was a terrible liar.

"Look, Rodney, I don't want to be a bastard or anything, but I was sort of looking forward to seeing a couple of old friends with Remus. And . . ."

"And I'm not invited."

John grabbed his hand, looking down at it as though it might bite him. John was good at a lot of things, but offering comfort wasn't one of them. "It's not that I don't love you, I just . . ."

"You're embarrassed by me?"

"No. I'm just not sure if now would be the time to introduce you to them. I haven't seen any of them in close to seventeen years."

Rodney nodded. It made sense, he supposed. Though he didn't have to like it. "Fine. I did want to get a chance to visit Jeannie, visit with Colonel Carter a bit."

John's eyes narrowed. "Carter?"

Rodney harrumphed, but he was secretly glad that John was jealous of Sam. That meant he had the right to be jealous right back. "Please. I'm so over her. Though if she wanted to join us in some sort of . . . well, that would be seriously hot. But I have a hot colonel of my own now and I don't . . ."

John leaned over and kissed him. "I'm glad. Will you stop stalking Remus now? He's getting a little jumpy."

Rodney bit his lip. On Earth he'd have access to all sorts of background checks . . .

John rolled his eyes. "All right, go ahead and ask. You're practically exploding with it."

"You and he . . . you were never . . ."

"No," John whispered, kissing Rodney lightly, just below his ear. "And if we had, it wouldn't matter." He boxed the ear he'd just kissed. If he wasn't lying on a very narrow bed with a ridiculously hot colonel, Rodney might worry about John's ability to be sweet one minute and violent the next. "When will you get it through your head that I'm with you, even if I sometimes wonder why? You know most people would react to this kind of behavior by getting a restraining order?"

Rodney pulled John in tighter, trying not to hug him too possessively. "You're not most people."

"So I've been told," John moaned into Rodney's mouth, his hands roaming down Rodney's sides to lift up his t-shirt.

"Where are you going?"

"England. I'll only be gone for a couple of weeks," John kissed the words into Rodney's jawline.

"Weeks? What could you possibly find to do in England for weeks?"

John shrugged, yanking at Rodney's belt. As pleasant as it was, Rodney could spot a diversionary tactic a mile a way (he'd had practice with John Sheppard).

"John?"

"Look, I have some business to wrap up, okay? It's just some stuff I have to take care of and I'm all yours. I promise," John murmured, pawing at Rodney's pants before giving up and just sticking his hand into the slit of Rodney's boxers. "Are you done asking questions or can we fool around now?"

Actually, Rodney did have a rather pressing question. "Do you have any idea why Hermiod is wearing a hat? And what the hell is S.P.E.W?"

John just shrugged, giving Rodney one of his theatrically wet smacking kisses. "Maybe his head's cold."

---

The night was clear and joyless out in the marshes, stars flickering feebly in a velvety darkness, as cloying and thick with moisture as if the clouds had already come in off the channel.

Far off in the distance a single light flickered, a haunting melody spilling forth, a lullaby to a sleeping child rocking by the warmth of an old-fashioned fire.

Not much is known of the marsh people – half spirits, fairies, wild elves, they would say, haunting muggles with their ghostly light or whispering quiet poetry that sucked the tide in.

But the most important thing to remember about the marsh people was that, where they lived, in their exquisite magical poverty deep in the bog, what they did, what they ate, their dreams, their hopes, their ambitions . . . none of it mattered, because nobody outside cared. There was a saying among wizards – if an elf falls in the forest, does he make a sound?

That's why nobody noticed when the light in the heart of the swamp slowly flickered out, the sullen wails of the colicky child by the fire suddenly quieted, and a snake slithered silently back into its nest of vipers down in that foggy hollow, leaving behind it nothing but a kiss.