The Winegrower

A/N: This story is for notsosaintly. Thank you – for everything!

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Dreamy_Dragon has done the main work on this story *hugs you tightly*

Additionally, I had help from Sampdoria, CharmedForce, Arabella Bloodgood, and sunny33. That only proves that betaing for me is not an easy job. Thank you, ladies!

The Winegrower

Last night, he had dreamed of the Dark Lord and had woken up screaming for the first time in over eight years.

Admittedly, it had been an awful dream full of shadows and fear, full of pain and blood. Luckily, he dreamed this particular dream rarely nowadays. Usually, he slept peacefully; maybe that was the reason that it had been an even scarier experience.

Now, towards the end of the night, he sat on the bedside, tired and tense, and decided that it was time for a break. Quite obviously, he had neglected his needs for too long, had worked too hard. By now, after years on this island, he knew that it never was a good idea to do so.

He needed a holiday. A thorough one, not just a few days away from his vineyard. At least two weeks at the beach. The last time he had been there was... Yes. Nearly a year ago. And as it was autumn, work was easy. He could afford to leave the vines to his men.

Right then. First thing in the morning, he would ask Maria to look after his house. Pedro, her husband, was more than capable of taking care of his precious plants. He could leave for a while, and he would come back refreshed.

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Packing didn't take him long. Most of the things he needed were in his hut down at the beach, and although he didn't go there regularly, he always made sure that his second house was in good shape and contained clothes, books, and the basics for a lazy weekend. He could buy everything else he needed at the market. Therefore, he took only the book he was currently reading, a few personal items, and his sunglasses. A few hours, and he would be there – the bus would take him to the beach as surely as an Apparition spell, but with less risk of exposure.

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His house at the beach was small, but beautiful, and as always he thought, I should come here more often, before he went into the bedroom and threw open the shutters towards the ocean. A soft breeze blew in and took away the stale smell that indicated no one had lived here for a while. And after he had lit a candle and placed it under a bowl of scented water, a pleasant fragrance of orange flowers wafted through the two rooms on the lower floor.

Dropping his travelling bag on the bed, he went into the small kitchen and opened the fridge. It was empty, of course, apart from a few bottles of beer and some ice cubes. He'd have to go shopping, but that could wait until after he'd had a swim. In the mountains, where he worked on the fields all day long and made sure the vines got enough water, there was no time for leisure, and there was no ocean, either.

He pulled off his shirt, dropped his shorts, and even took off his sunglasses. Naked he stepped onto the beach, knowing that he'd be alone on his private ground. And even if someone had seen him, it wouldn't have bothered him – he looked just like the next man and here, on this island, no one considered nudity special or weird.

The water embraced his body, and for a while he just floated on the waves, every now and then tasting salt on his lips from the spray. After he felt all his muscles relax, he turned and swam in a steady, long-practised rhythm. He loved swimming; he just didn't have time to do it more often.

He swam two miles or more, straight out towards the horizon and with every intention of going on until nightfall. When the sun settled, touching the edge of the ocean, he turned and went back, seeing the beach and his house from the distant and thinking, I love this life.

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At the market, the women recognised him and greeted him with big smiles, showing equally big gaps in their gums. Childbirth and a hard life had cost them their beauty, but they possessed pride and humour instead and knew that he, the stranger, was one of them, despite the fact that he hadn't been born amongst them.

He bought bread and fruits, little scallops and big king prawns. He bought cocoa beans and milk, and at the end, right before he went home, he bought a bottle of wine. He usually didn't drink, but tonight he felt he could do with a little intoxication, and as he craved a different taste to his own wine, this one would do quite nicely. He would cook, eat, and then sit on the beach and watch the moon rise, thinking of home, which now was high up in the mountains of this island.

The next morning, instead of getting up before sunrise, he slept in. No nightmares had bothered him, and he only woke because he had to go for a piss and because he heard the neighbour come in, presumably leaving fresh rolls on the kitchen table. Chino could come and go as he liked – he looked after the house when its owner was up in the hills – and he had obviously decided that breakfast would come in handy for a man who had just arrived. The cocoa beans were freshly ground; golden butter accompanied the rolls and fig jam, smelling sweet and tempting.

The deeply tanned, lean, hard-muscled man sat down on his veranda and looked across the ocean, drank his cocoa-laced milk and mused about the past, something he didn't do often. The past, in his opinion, was not worth remembering. It had been dark and cruel, his personal past, and it had nearly cost him his life. Only here, at the beach, he dared to think back, to remember names and faces and events. Occasionally, he wondered if he could have done anything differently, if he could have saved more lives, but he always came to the inevitable conclusion that he had been nothing more than a figure on the chessboard, moved about cruelly and mercilessly by his two masters.

It had taken him years to think back without trembling. Now, sitting on his veranda with his naked feet in the warm sand, he felt not only safe, but also content.

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Until about four days later. By then, he had grown a stubble as he had stopped shaving, and he had slept enough and read enough for now. Sand was on his skin and in his very short, still entirely black hair – it didn't bother him. As he was on holiday, he didn't wear anything but shorts and sunglasses when outside the house and swam a daily distance that would have brought him round the island by now.

Four days after his arrival, though, he was craving company.

Not Chino. Not Chino's wife, who was nice but as small as a child and wrinkled like a walnut. Not the market women, who all had husbands who wouldn't hesitate to break his skull for messing with them.

No. He wanted someone new, someone who didn't live on the island, someone who didn't know him and wouldn't come back.

A tourist. Once a year, he took a break, and once a year, he chose from the women who came to the island for their holiday. He wanted someone for a few nights, just someone for a little leisurely fun.

So he searched for his shirt and his sunglasses and set off for a walk along the beach to find the little hotel a short mile or two away. Hopefully, there would be a lonely lady who didn't mind his attention, his looks, his accent, or the fact that he was neither a native nor a tourist himself.

The walk was as pleasant as the past few days had been. It was late in the year, and there would be fewer guests at the hotel – a good thing because too much choice often caused him to make no choice at all.

During high season, he wouldn't have done this anyway. There was too much competition from the young men who looked for elderly ladies with hungry eyes and a huge purse. Against those youths, a man in the height of his years like him didn't stand a chance.

He didn't look for money; he wanted nothing but pleasure. He looked for a younger woman, but still close to his own age, between thirty-five and forty. Presumably single, but that was not absolutely necessary as long as she matched his preferences. He liked his women small and nicely rounded, he liked them with hair down their backs, and he liked them a little cheeky. Dark-haired, ideally, or a redhead maybe.

Yes. A redhead would certainly do for this year.

Arriving at the small hotel beach, he perceived that there weren't many women around and only two whose looks he liked. One wasn't alone, though, surrounded by a bunch of friends. Although she looked nice and her hair was really long, he decided quickly that it would be too much effort to get through to her.

The other one... Hmm, yes, she was definitely worth a second look. Her hair was chestnut brown, long and curly, and her breasts looked nice and ripe and full in her white bikini top.

He took a step and then another when he saw movement in the corner of his eye: a child, playing in the sand. A woman sat close by, wearing dark sunglasses, a long-sleeved blouse, and long trousers. Not smiling, not laughing, no friends around and no husband, either. Chin length, blond hair. This is her first day here, he thought involuntarily and turned away again, wanting to get a bit closer to his original catch.

Only that he couldn't. This woman – young, certainly not yet thirty years old – attracted his interest. She seemed lonely; the way she wrapped her arms round her thin shoulders, the gentle rocking of her fragile body as if she were cold... It was obvious. She was unhappy.

He never went after blondes. And never after women that young – she must be twenty years or more his minor, he guessed. Additionally, she was too thin, nothing but bones, and hadn't he a preference for well-rounded women?

Definitely too young, and her hair was too short, as well. Although she was sitting, she seemed too tall for his liking.

The woman with the curly brown hair got up and he saw that she was exactly what he wanted. Two heads smaller than him, curves in abundance, and now she threw him a curious look. It would be easy to take her into his bed; he knew it the instant she winked at him and shook her bottom on the way to the water.

The other one, the blond one... What was it that attracted his eye? There was something that drew him towards her. Her eyes, maybe, hidden behind the sunglasses? A riddle always piqued his interest, and to be honest, he wanted a challenge more than he wanted an easy shag.

Quickly, born out of instinct, he made a decision: he, the predator, knew that she would be his prey, not the one in the white bikini who now flirted with Raoul, the melon seller.

"Rose! Please don't fall into the water, dear!" the blond woman called.

She hadn't seen him yet, and her concentration was on the little girl anyway. Perfect, he thought. She has a child – two, if the boy is hers as well – and she is most definitely married. Unhappily married, I would bet my life on it.

Which certainly would make this a challenge for him. Unhappily married or not, as her children were with her, she would hesitate in surrendering to him.

He took a step to get a better look. She was the only one who was fully dressed; all other women were in bikinis. It nearly seemed as if she wanted to hide her form, her long legs, and her slender arms. To no success: the wind was blowing and pressed the fabric of her clothes against her body. He could see her shape almost as clearly as if she had been naked.

He was at arm's lenght now and could observe her more closely. Her face was heart-shaped, her hands long and pale, her mouth adorable. Wishing he could see her eyes, he wondered if they were blue or grey.

She seemed oblivious to her surroundings; another hint that she was not looking for an adventure like so many women who came here. The little girl was around five years old; this meant she had married early, becoming pregnant not too soon after she had finished school. He hoped it meant that if she was really in a marriage she didn't enjoy, it wouldn't be too hard to catch her attention.

Usually, he didn't bother to muse about his prey. He saw, chased, and took what he wanted, making the encounter pleasurable for both of them and was happy when the woman of his choice left again after the week or two he could spare.

But she... She looked as if she was not only lonely and unhappy, but desperately trying to figure out where her life had gone wrong, and he wondered why it bothered him to see her like that.

The little girl, Rose, jumped up and down near the water, smiling broadly, and close to falling in every second. She was the older one; her brother was about three years old. Yes, they both belonged to her. The boy had run towards his mother, and she wiped sand off the little one's mouth and gave him a biscuit.

The children were having fun. She wasn't. If he just came up and approached her, he would have lost this game before it had really begun. Over the years, he had learned a lot about woman, and he had an idea how to get closer to her. The way into the heart of a lonely, hardened woman was nearly always through her children.

So he turned and went up to the kiosk, bought some sun lotion and went back to the beach, crossed the sand in lazy, long strides so she could see him, watch him, if she liked.

She was startled when his shadow fell on her. Confused and a little angry, she looked up.

"Hola," he said and nodded at her in a friendly way, gesturing towards the little girl. Who wasn't wearing a hat and whose nose was pink already. Honestly, those tourists never learned. "Su hija agarrara una quemadura del sol." Talking Spanish was easier for him after nearly a decade on the island; plus, it usually broke the ice.

Additionally and to explain himself, he held out the tube with the strong sun blocker.

She frowned. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice pleasantly deep and unmistakeably tired. "I only speak English, so..."

"Ah." Gracefully, he went down on one knee. "Sorry. Your daughter will get a sunburn in less than half an hour if you don't put sun lotion on her. Your boy as well, of course. And you."

There it was, the indignation he had expected. "I did use lotion!" she said coolly. "Thank you very much."

"You are a tourist," he stated, not at all offended. "You have quite possibly bought sun lotion back home. It isn't strong enough for this climate and not properly waterproof. Use the lotion the natives use. It works better, and your children won't have to suffer."

Getting up in a swift move, he nodded a friendly good-bye and walked away without looking back, hoping with all his might that she would take the bait.

A/N: I do not want to imply that everyone who marries young and has children ends up unhappy. I say it happens often, and it certainly happened here. No offence meant to any of my readers.

I used the following prompt:

50. I want... Vacation!Snape! Put him on holiday -- on a beach, on Antarctica, on a plane (or two, or three)! It can be gen, het, or slash, but I would love to see what would happen if he met someone from his past...