Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's Note: This story contains implied sexual interaction between two men. If that is likely to upset you, or if you are underage, please consider this your cue to stop reading. Thanks.

Three days and two nights. That was how long they'd been traveling, covering as many miles as they could in the cold and wet before stopping to camp, or to beg lodging with a wizard family if they could find one. Tonight, though, the weather had been so harsh that they could neither get more than a man's height off the ground nor see to fly once they had done so. When they had stumbled across a small Muggle settlement, Godric had insisted, over Salazar's objections, that they hide the broomsticks in an outbuilding and go to the nearest house to wait out the storm. Now here they were, packed into a hall full of brutal, violent, superstitious Muggles like a bride's goods into a chest. And there was Godric, sitting in perfect ease, raising his cup to the other men at the table as if he drank with them every night of his life.

Salazar hated him.

"Where did you say you came from again?" asked one of the Muggles, a grizzled, thick-set fellow with scarcely a tooth in his head. Everyone else in the room continued with what they were doing - talking, singing, arguing - but Salazar sensed that keen attention was being paid to Godric's answer.

"North," said Godric vaguely. "I believe there's a bit more in that jug, isn't there?"

"I had the last - oh, wait, there is more. Funny thing, that." Tilting the suddenly full jug, the man slopped ale into Godric's cup. "You drink like a priest, even if you don't look like one."

Salazar concealed an inappropriate snort of laughter by taking a large gulp of his own drink. Godric had introduced the two of them as scholars, which the Muggles had taken to mean that they were part of a religious order. He could not imagine anyone less religious than Godric, and as for being chaste -

Beneath the table, his knee hit the trestle in an inadvertent jerk as Godric's large, heavy hand came to rest on his thigh. The hand pressed down, as if warning him to stay still, then wormed its way into the front of his leggings and investigated the slightly damp warmth within. Salazar's own hand tightened round his knife handle. Very slowly and deliberately, he speared a piece of salted meat and ate it. At the same time, he willed Godric mentally to stop. Not here, not here, not here ...

"Have you met many priests?" Godric asked the old man, as if this were the most fascinating topic he had ever heard. His hand, seeming to operate of its own accord, drew ticklish circles on Salazar's lower belly, then slipped down to fondle him more intimately. The knife clattered onto the table's wooden surface, which was worn smooth at the edges where other people had rested their elbows. As casually as possible, Salazar did the same and put his head in his hands. He thought his teeth would splinter if he ground them any harder. The brash idiocy of the man was not to be believed. Any minute, their dining companions would realize that something was going on, and then there would be a mess. If wizards would kill men for this sort of activity, he doubted Muggles, with their well-known intolerance of anything different, would be any more understanding.

If they do not kill you, Godric, I shall, he thought, feeling his toes clench inside his shoes as a surge of hot blood rushed to his groin. He looked at the only exit, a door with a leather drape, and calculated how many Muggles lay between it and them. Perhaps he could cast spells while Godric used his sword ... and then what? Where could they go in the howling, sleety darkness?

"You are sweating, my friend," said a fair-haired young man. "It is warm in here, isn't it?" He picked up another jug of ale and helpfully topped off Salazar's cup. Salazar lifted his head long enough to give a curt nod of thanks. He did not trust his voice to stay steady. Beside him, Godric the madman was continuing his conversation about Muggle holy orders while his hand stroked and squeezed in a most indecent manner. He knew exactly what Salazar liked, damn him, and somehow he was managing to do it without attracting attention. The part of his arm that showed above the table was barely moving. The only witnesses were the dogs down below, who didn't care. If they kept quiet - and if Salazar could avoid letting on - he and Godric might actually survive this insanity. Then he could kill Godric later, at his leisure.

Not letting on, of course, was the tricky bit. All his awareness was focused just below Godric's caressing hand; there wasn't much left for keeping an expressionless face. When the moment of truth finally arrived, he nearly bit through his tongue with the effort of staying quiet. Even so, a strangled sound escaped his throat.

"What's the matter? Are you sick?" asked the fair man, trying to lean around Godric, who smoothly shifted position to block him.

"Just ... hot," grunted Salazar, staring at his trencher and hoping that sweat would not fall onto it from his forehead.

"We could toss you outside," said another man. "Two minutes in the storm would cool you off for sure!" Everyone laughed, including Godric, who had removed his hand, and, Salazar hoped, thought to wipe it on something.

"The storm's passed," called someone nearer the door. "It's bitter cold, but the stars are out."

"We'll be going soon, then," said Godric, beaming his warmest, most sincere smile all around the room. "Ah, look at this. The jug's still full. Who wants more ale?"

People began holding up their cups and shouting that they did, and under cover of the noise, Salazar leaned close to Godric's ear and muttered, "I am going to make you regret your foolishness before this journey is over, Gryffindor."

"I would like to see you try, my friend," said Godric, and slapped him on the back affectionately. "I would like to see you try."