Jehane Desrosiers

“Healer Caduceus,” Severus said carelessly. “You may be interested in trying this.” He held out a small flask.

It was something of a celebratory dinner, the term having ended as had Clepe’s professional relationship with us, although I hoped he would continue as our friend. We were sitting around the small dinner table in the Headmaster’s house, curtains drawn against the late-falling dark, last of the wine still in our glasses. Clepe had brought Albia a lovely book; she had taken it to the living room and was examining the moving illustrations with interest.

Clepe cocked his head. “What -- ?”

“It will age you. Or rather, it will alter your appearance to match your chronological age. It is not permanent; you will need to take it monthly. I am willing to provide it for you, if you wish, on that basis. As you have brought your considerable talents to bear on my problem, I thought it only fair to focus mine on yours. If you wish, of course.”

Hope and fear fought for dominance on his face as Clepe gazed at the flask.

“May I -- know the contents?”

Severus nodded solemnly.

“Naturally occurring paradigms for the effects of time are rare, of course. The non-magical ingredients required spell work. Some materials were gathered at the seaside. There is a dust from the North American desert for which I was lucky enough to locate a source. Also from North America, Giant Redwood bark. Tortoise. Minced flobberworm and Mandrake.” He paused. “The base is mother’s milk, so very little heat was used.”

“Side effects?”

“I think I’ve titrated the dose properly for your age and size. You might feel some muscular aches but they should pass with continued use. The formulation is self-limiting; you cannot look older than your proper years. It is not a glamour, nor does it negate the original curse. It is simply an overlay that will read the natural age of your cells and bring your appearance into accord.”

“You devil!” I said. “Were you working on this last month?”

“I have been working on this for many months,” he said smugly. Dropping his eyes, he continued contemplatively. “I suppose it was a bargain with the gods; I worked out several formulas but I couldn’t complete them without -- without my magic.”

I grinned. “So if the gods would grant you your magic, you’d do a good deed in return, is that it?”

“Why else?”

Clepe turned the flask in his fingers. He looked at Severus and then me, holding our gaze in that untroubled way he had. His eyes were extraordinary, deep green and so thickly lashed I thought of them as “thatched.”

“Oh, why else indeed,” he said softly. “You won’t mind if I take it home and give it some thought. It represents a big change.”

“Not at all,” Severus said. He seemed discomfited by Clepe’s steady look. “Merlin knows, there can’t have been another call in the world to make it. I was glad for the challenge. It took my mind off the damned indignities of the treatment.”

“Yes, of course,” Clepe said.

“Hasn’t been tested, in any case. It may not work.”

“That, I doubt,” said Clepe. “Give me some time to get used to the idea.”

“Clepe, look at the dragons!” Albia nearly knocked over Clepe’s wine glass placing her book on the table. I caught it with a righting spell and took the opportunity to change the subject.

“Is that your favorite chapter, Alby? I think you like dragons best.”

“No, Mum,” she answered. “Hippogriffs. Because they are our famiwy business.” She said this so somberly that we were hard put not to laugh and the conversation went on to other things.

+++++

“Will he take it, do you think?” I asked Severus that night as I hung up my robes and took my pajamas off the hook on the back of the closet door.

“He damn well better,” Severus growled, taking off his boots. “It’s brilliant.”

“It may be, but he’s adjusted to his life as it is. He may not want to readjust, even to something he’s wanted. It could be a terrible disappointment.”

“I thought he’d be happy with it.”

“He is. He’s happy that you did it for him. It was a wonderful, thoughtful gift. And brilliant. But oh, Severus --”

“What?”

“He’s so beautiful.”

“He’ll still be beautiful. Beautiful people don’t grow less so with age. Take yourself, for instance.” I snorted. He looked at me sharply, stood and took me by the shoulders. Glaring into my eyes, he said, “Be ruled by me on this.”

I nodded. It wasn’t true; I’d never been beautiful or even good-looking, but I could understand that in our world, the world between us, I was. He wanted me to have that, as I wanted him to have it from me and that was better than anything the outside world might say. I leaned against him and we kissed.

We didn’t see Clepe for a month. I was accustomed to having an owl or Floo from him every other week or so. I assumed that he was thinking about Severus’ gift and deciding, or perhaps working out how to decline it. Or had he taken it?

Then one Saturday morning, at the hour when we were always dressed and washing the coffee cups -- for he knew us that well -- there was a knock on the door. I opened the door and there he was.

Eyes still green, but faded now and nestled in a delicate web of wrinkles. The thick lashes were stubby and pale, the fine skin coarsened and marked. He had cut his hair short, for it was thinning on top and dusted with gray. That rose petal mouth, no longer sweetly chiseled but blurred and bracketed with deep lines, curled in a smile of good humor.

“Do you know me then, Jehane?” he asked.

“Oh,” I laughed, throwing my arms around him. “Do I know you? You’re beautiful. Hello, Clepe.” It was true. He was more beautiful with the history of love, suffering and sacrifice written on his face than he had been in his pristine, doll-like preservation. I would not have credited it.

I pulled him into the house, excited.

“Severus,” I called. “It’s true. Come here! Clepe is here!”

“Did he --” Severus entered the room and stopped. “Ah. The tortoise was correct, then. Any muscle pain? Good.” He leaned back, tilting his head, to appraise his work.

“I’m feeling quite the Old Master,” Clepe said.

“He’s just congratulating himself,” I said to Clepe. “Please do sit down and let me bring you some coffee. Then tell us all about it.”

I paused as Albia appeared in the doorway. What would she make of this?

She charged in calling his name, then stopped, eyes wide. Her brow furrowed as she tried to make out the change. Staring, she came closer. Finally she seemed to settle it.

“You’re a daddy,” she said.

“Yes.” He smiled broadly. “I am a grown-up man. Do you know what? I always was one. In disguise.” I wondered what she had previously considered him -- a student, perhaps?

“Oh.” She was losing interest already. “Did you just happen to bring me something?”

“Oh, let me see.” Clepe patted his robe pockets. “Why yes, I seem to have something here.” He withdrew a tissue paper disc, segmented in colors like a beach ball. I had seen these before, but long ago -- fragile paper balls blown up with a quick puff. As soon as he inflated this one, it left his hand and hovered over Albia’s head, orbiting like a miniature moon.

“It’s paper, Alby, so touch it gently,” he said. Tipped with her finger, it sailed away and resumed its orbit around a lamp.

“You don’t have to bring her something every time you come,” I said.

“Oh, I know,” he answered. “I’m getting terribly spoiled. If I don’t stop, I’ll be completely intolerable.” There was something -- an easy expansiveness -- that I hadn’t seen in Clepe before. It was as if a spark of anxiety about being accepted, one I’d not even registered, had gone. I poured him a cup of coffee and warmed it. Dark, no sugar.

“You are well?” Severus asked as he settled into his wooly armchair with the worn arms. Clepe took his accustomed end of the couch as I did mine. It was the same bird-headed couch I’d brought from France, but it rarely spoke anymore. Perhaps it had had its say.

“Oh -- yes, as you can see.”

“But what’s it like?” I asked. “First of all, when you took the potion, did it happen all at once? What did you tell people?”

“Not all at once.” He turned to me. “It took about a week to settle. I just got older every day. I know --” He held up a hand to Severus. “I’m not older. I just look my age. It took about a week. My coworkers thought I was overtired; in fact my Chief offered me time off. There was a point, though, where everyone caught on.” He sat reflecting for a moment. “It’s funny. Everyone knew about my curse -- a hospital is a small place -- but no one ever mentioned it. Now they tell me how well I look. I think they must mean, ‘how normal.’”

Severus nodded. “Most people won’t make much effort to overcome visual-cognitive dissonance. They’re glad you’ve taken the work out of it for them.” He said “most people” with a faintly contemptuous air.

“No one asked?” I said. He shook his head ruefully. I thought again how strangely alone he was. “So -- what is it like?”

He smiled. “Easy. As in, at ease. Even though the staff know what’s happened, they can’t help warming up to me. It hurts a bit, actually.”

“Because they didn’t bother, before.”

“Yes. They couldn’t help it, I suppose.”

“They could help it,” I said. “Lazy, stupid people.”

“Ah, Jehane. Not everyone has this mysterious taste for me that you two do.” I glanced at Severus. He watched, unmoving, but did not gainsay Clepe’s observation.

“I’m taking Albia down to the stables; will you come along?” I asked. Clepe did not ride, but he had an amiable enjoyment of whatever was on offer, and he could walk on the moors while Albia and I flew overhead.

“I’d like that; maybe you’d care to cover the ground with me, Severus, while the ladies take to the air?”

My husband nodded once and rose. He rarely involved himself in my riding activities, so this was a treat.

Albia and I flew out over the moors then doubled back. Below, Clepe and Severus walked, leaning in toward each other, the taller, black-clothed figure gesticulating, the other nodding intently. Severus had shortened his stride slightly to accommodate his friend. He looked up and lifted his hand in acknowledgment. I expected they were talking about potions or wandless magic, of which much healing was composed.

*****

“Will you come up to the castle for lunch?” I asked Clepe. “I think it’s Welsh rarebit.”

“Thank you, no; I’m meeting Remus Lupin for a drink at the Three Broomsticks.”

“Oh. I didn’t think you were friends. You were at school together.”

“We haven’t been, not much, but he was in London last week and we had lunch. I’m considering beginning a social life and I thought he might have a few ideas for me.”

“Not bloody likely,” Severus snorted. “Unless you want to conduct your entire social life here on the Hogwarts campus.”

“Remus doesn’t go into town much,” I explained.

“I like the Hogwarts campus,” Clepe told Severus.

“You have all of London,” Severus said. “You’ll find a lot more variety there.”

“I like depth, not variety.”

I wondered if Remus himself were the attraction. I couldn’t imagine anything better for the two of them, but if Clepe were only venturing out now, he might be quite new to the kind of relationship that Remus would be ready for. Still, no one was kinder or more patient than Remus.

Surprisingly, Severus made no sarcastic comments about Professor Lupin. We saw Clepe to the door.

Once Clepe had left, I flew into Severus’ arms.

“Thank you.” I kissed his nose. “Thank you.” I kissed his forehead. “Thank you.” I kissed him long and hard on the mouth.

“For what, precisely?” He drew back, scowling, arms crossed.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know. Look what you’ve done for him.”

“Oh.” He waved his hand. “Well. Answered prayers. We’ll see if it makes him any happier, which I doubt.”

“Yes, we’ll see.”

I will tell you now that it did. Clepe was happy indeed and his happiness was added to ours for many years afterward.

Author’s Note

“Death is the mother of beauty.” -- from the well-known poem Sunday Morning, by Wallace Stevens.