Back In Black

 

Softly scented air drifted through the open casement window as he leaned back in the one decently upholstered armchair, enjoying the last streaks of sun from its mauve and gold setting. Songbirds gathered in the lowering light, and their sleepy calls trilled into his ears and along his skin. He'd done an unconscionable amount of physical labor to process the crop this day, but the rewards would be reaped just as richly. The aches in his muscles left a healthy glow, instead of . . . well, this was not the time to think of that.

No, this was the time to look over the bunches of drying herb and feel the satisfaction of a job well done.

This year's crop was the most potent ever, and would heap his vault with galleons. Not that he was a pauper -- the Dark Lord rewarded his minions well, and Severus Snape had no intention of turning down any kind of remuneration that his miserable double life offered him.

He inhaled slowly from the delicate elvenwork pipe, filled with a pinch of the Cannabis Imajica that he'd charmed dry just this half-hour past -- only to test its potency, of course.

Harvested at Solstice, properly prepared, it offered the user a relaxation and peace unparalleled by its muggle counterpart. Severus prepared only the best.

It wasn't often that he could allow himself this respite, but if necessary, he could sober himself quickly enough. Voldemort had been absent lately, His closest followers even less in evidence now than they had been during the agonisingly quiet school year. Severus had no idea what was going on. No one on the Dark side suspected him; there was no reason for him to be kept ignorant except for the Dark Lord's whim.

Death Eater meetings had been few and far between. His cohorts in crime were just as surprised the meetings were held by Lucius Malfoy, with no Voldemort in sight. The members of the Order had been riven with anxiety. They'd held their collective breath the entire school year, waiting for the axe to fall, and were ready to fly apart at the least provocation by June. It hadn't happened . . . almost nothing had, and Severus, for one, was tired. Tired of all of it, yes, but unspeakably weary of waiting.

He watched smoke rise from the bowl of his pipe and hang lazily in the last streak of sunlight.

It wasn't so unusual for Voldemort to be less in evidence after the school year ended. He was always absent around this time, as if He, too, spent summers away. The image of the Dark Lord sunning himself on the beaches of Corfu was so perverse, Severus grinned foolishly. If Voldemort was on holiday too, it was unlikely he'd be interrupted at his family cottage. The house had been in his hands, its location now known only to him, since his grandmother had died three decades ago.

Every year, for four weeks of summer, he gave Dumbledore an address in Greece, while telling Voldemort nothing. There was nowhere the Dark Mark couldn't reach him, after all. Instead, he came here, to spend one month out of the year as fully human as he could bear to be any more.

This was his place of rest, ease from the uncompromising wills of two masters. The cottage made the difference between bending and breaking. There wouldn't be a Summerland for his soul in the afterlife. The price of his wrongs would be paid; it was the law of balance, and not likely that his full fare would be drawn on earth. If he found any peace at all, it would have to be of his own making.

In this, his only unsullied refuge, he could stop reaching vainly for things forever just out of his grasp: acknowledgement, atonement, absolution.

Severus took another steady draw from the pipe and let it out in a long sigh; let it all out. The double-dealings and the betrayals and the sorrows lifted as white whorls on the faint breeze. He watched them, and considered lighting a fire to complete his comfort. He contemplated the empty hearth. No, a fire on this perfect evening would make the small parlour too stuffy. Perhaps he would take a glass of wine to warm himself from the inside, instead.

Before he could reach over to the side table, a thump and a moan issued from the fireplace. Something or someone fell out, showering him with soot. Oily specks vanished onto the unrelieved black of his clothing, but the intruder remained. Severus clutched the arms of his chair, rigid with shock.

From the very fireplace he'd considered thoughtfully just moments ago, there arose a creature mined from his night terrors. Immediately before him, almost close enough to lean forward and touch, was . . . Sirius Black.

Severus had grown inured to many horrors at the hands of his Dark master, but the last sight of Sirius Black -- pulled out of this world, a scream locked behind his teeth, into the land of the dead -- chilled him to the bone as he'd watched in Dumbledore's pensieve. The idea of it -- forced to spend eternity alive, yet not living, with only the memories of this world to call his own -- it was beyond anything he'd ever endured. Beyond anything he could contemplate.

It would be a hell without end.

The thing, whatever it was, was nearly doubled over, clutching a weight to itself with a hollow groan. It was carrying . . . carrying . . . what in Paracelsus' name was happening? He was seeing things. No, he wasn't. He knew the difference between vapor and reality. Just as well, since any error would soon put a period to his unremarked existence. There was something in his parlour.

Wait. A dark, enclosed space . . . a ghastly spectre . . . of course. The cottage had another guest.

The man -- could he call it a man? -- staggered sideways, and Severus was positively, absolutely not giggling. Never would such an appalling, foolish noise come out of his mouth. And he was unquestionably not hysterical. Cold fingers fumbled awkwardly for the wand tangled in his robes. Even that seemed absurdly amusing. Another odd noise burst out, surprising him. A chuckle, perhaps? It had been so long, he'd forgot what that sounded like. With effort, he pointed the wand and spoke. His voice was almost firm. "Riddikulus!"

He relaxed slightly and smiled as the figure straightened with great effort. Oh, yes, carrying, indeed! Severus' sense of humor had become more twisted than he'd known. There could be nothing more preposterous than the sight of Sirius Black with child. Fifty points to Slytherin. He almost choked on the laughter that bubbled from his throat.

Just because the word felt so good in his mouth, he cried again, "Riddikulus!"

Nothing happened.

He blinked, drawing back. Any self-respecting boggart should have vanished by now.

'Sirius Black' dropped to its knees, eyes wild under a clump of ratted hair. In a frighteningly familiar voice, it rasped, "Stop." With a wheeze, it tried to fill its lungs with enough breath to continue. "Show your true self, you . . . murdering bastard." The figure slumped. In his right mind, Severus would never have forgot himself enough to ease out of his chair onto all fours to peer closer. He'd never have heard the thing whisper, "Kill . . . kill me," before it toppled onto the floorboards.

*

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, the idea of Sirius Black warming his bed would have brought Severus great pleasure. That time was past. He stared into the small bedroom from the open door, unwilling to move any closer.

He'd put a great deal of effort into determining that the body now stinking up his good set of sheets did, indeed, belong to Sirius Black. Sodding cur. How dare that repulsive mongrel soil his precious cottage? It wasn't bad enough that Black was here. His presence alone shattered the only tranquility Severus had to his name, not to mention the boundaries of life and death. No, that wasn't bad enough; he had to be accompanied by . . . some thing. Something loathsome and unnatural; something bound to pull yet more unpleasantness down upon his head just by its very existence.

Something that looked, with the help of a Clairvoyans charm, very much like a foetus.   

Intolerable.

Damn Black for coming here. Damn him for drawing breath.

Severus cursed both his scientific curiosity and the aftereffects of his finest herb. Apparently sobering oneself was more difficult than doing it to others. At least, that was the only reason he could think of to explain why he hadn't at least tried to kill Black, exactly as demanded. It wasn't as if the thought hadn't crossed his mind.

After his brain stopped whirling with Sirius Black and back from the dead and he knows he knows -- that was when the rage rose under his skin. Rage, blinding him, scalding his cheeks. Rage . . . and pain. His gut twisted as if a giant fist clenched his insides, squeezing hot bile into his throat. Sirius Black had violated his sanctuary. Its protection may only have been illusory -- obviously had been illusory -- but it was an illusion he needed desperately.

His solace was no more. If nothing else, there would be aurors and seers and healers descending, wanting to know when why how. All because Severus had chosen not to kill. Because he hadn't the stomach for more unnecessary death. How terrible must Black's hate be, to come here to Severus' refuge? Not to go to his friends, but to come here to torment him from beyond the Veil?  

He was not sure he had ever borne that much hatred for anyone, until now.

*

The clear gray eyes opened slowly, lashes sweeping upward until Black appeared awake, if a bit confused. Severus pressed his fingertips harder against the carotid artery until he was sure they would not tremble. It was almost beyond his capacity not to wrap his hands around that neck and try to squeeze until all life was gone. He foreshortened the pointless exchange.

"To answer your first idiotic question, yes, you are very much alive. And as for the second, yes, it is due to my exemplary self-control."

"No." The threadbare voice was almost as colourless as the face on the pillow, and the eyes closed slowly, as if they could no longer bear to see.

"A simple word of thanks would not come amiss."

The eyes did not open. The voice was no stronger. "I can't thank you for this."

"Just because you didn't hesitate to throw me to the wolf does not mean that I am willing to do the same to you."

"Snape." Black's resignation held the weight of lead. "Please."

"Save your whining. How did you get here?"

The confusion returned. "Flooed. You saw me."

This house was not and had never been on the Floo network. It was Unplottable, and protected permanently by Fidelius -- Gran'mere's Secret Keeper had been dead for a century or more. "How did you get out?"

Black's eyes closed, and his voice was just a whisper. "Stunning spell rebounded . . . on MacNair and somebody else."

That hadn't been what he was expecting at all, but it answered what he hadn't yet asked. "Very well." He'd not get more information now. Black was nearly catatonic.

"Wait . . . Harry . . . Remus . . . "

"They're fine, if no more intelligent than ever. Shut up and go to sleep."

A small noise was the only response, and after a few moments, the steady, even breathing told Severus that he'd won. This time. He took a deep breath.

How had he come to this pass, wishing to prove that he was a better human being than a man who begged for death?   It was insane. Fury pounded behind his eyes. It demanded to be satisfied upon this weakling, this . . . impotent ruffian, this absurd excuse for a man who would once have consigned him to eternity without a thought.

He would not satisfy the anger -- not that way. He would have his answers, though, and he would take his revenge. It would be in other ways, subtler ways more appealing to his nature. Black, after all, was at his mercy. He didn't know yet how he would achieve his ends, but achieve them he would.

A small, genuine smile lifted the corners of Severus' lips as he contemplated his ultimate victory. It did not fail as he dribbled water between Black's pallid lips, nor did it fail as he tucked a second blanket over the mound that was Black's . . . guest. It did not fail as he settled for the rest of the night in the comfortable armchair he'd moved from the parlour.

*

His neck ached, and when he felt plush nap against his cheek, memory returned. He was sitting upright in the velvet-covered armchair, face pressed against a wing. The chair was not nearly as comfortable after spending a night in it. He'd been drooling.

He must have been drugged out of his mind.

Severus sighed contentedly. The Imajica was worth a small fortune.

Licking his woolly teeth with a dry tongue, he considered opening his eyes. If he did, he'd be up for the day. It was much too early, and he nuzzled back into the crease of the chair. As loud as those damnable birds were twittering, he knew it had to be near dawn, and the noise was enough to wake the . . .

Black.

That son of a bitch.

Severus snapped fully awake in an instant, scowling at the occupant of his bed.

There he was, curled up on his side, facing the window. Gray early light made him look like death warmed over. So appropriate. Lines radiated from the corners of his eyes. His skin was rough, his hair lank and lustreless. He remembered the grooves cut deep at the corners of Black's mouth, likely a souvenir of Azkaban. Black was more emaciated than ever, as if he hadn't had a decent meal since . . . well.

There wasn't much left of the proud, handsome boy who'd laughed with his friends, who'd laughed at Severus. Not a lot of laughing where he'd been lately, either, it looked like. There was surprisingly little satisfaction in that thought. Severus had been overjoyed to see Black go to Azkaban, if only because then everyone knew what kind of contemptible scum they'd coddled. Severus had been vindicated. He'd even felt a twinge of sympathy for that rotten bastard Potter. Potter had never dreamt to get a taste of Black's vicious nature.  

When the truth came out, that Black had never betrayed his best friend, Severus understood that he alone had been the focus of Black's hate. The knowledge had torn open scars he hadn't even known were there. After all these years, he could still cringe for the idiot child he'd been.

Now? Last night's towering rage had receded, and he felt . . . vacant. Perhaps he was getting old. He trudged toward the kitchen with the slow, measured movements of years far beyond his own.

The overlarge mug of tea was cold in his hand by the time Black's eyes opened once more. It was time to find out what the bleeding hell was going on.

"Good morning," Severus said calmly. "Would you care for refreshment? I suspect you've had a long journey." He almost laughed out loud when Black stared at him as if he were out of his mind.

"Tea." The voice was wistful. "I'd love some tea."

"You'll get it, if I get some answers." Severus hummed low in his throat. "You look like a thousand leagues of bad road."

"I've been dead." The battered voice sounded as if it hadn't been used lately, but the tone could've singed his brows. Black's gaze narrowed to calculation. "No one knows I'm back. No one knows I'm here."

"Is that supposed to be some kind of invitation?" There was plenty of time. His other entertainment would be watching herbs dry.

"Yes."

"To escort you back to death's door?" All right, if he must, he'd be blunt. "Why are you here?"

"I already told you."

The snap and snarl reminded Severus of the man's animal nature. How easily frustrated Black still was! He hadn't learned anything in Azkaban, and apparently nothing where he'd lately been. Severus looked up at the ceiling, with its corner spiderwebs catching the early morning sun, and gritted his teeth.

"I'm not asking what you want." Severus himself had learned a great deal of patience over the years. He'd never exercised it with this man, but he was determined to do so now. "The rumours of your death have been greatly exaggerated. You tumble into the parlour at my family cottage after being, to all intents and purposes, dead for a year. You demand that I send you back to the beyond, and claim you've told no one of your reappearance. I find that . . . odd."

He stood, knowing he was silhouetted against the rising sun. It might not be intimidating, but it would most certainly be annoying.

"I hope my friends wouldn't be so eager to kill me the minute I return from the dead." Far from being annoyed, the dolt wasn't even looking at him. Good thing for Black that the cottage's dull white walls were so fascinating.

"They should be, but they wouldn't." Pity, that. "And, of course, you have no interest whatsoever in remaining in the land of the living. So you very wisely came to the one soulless killer of your acquaintance." Severus closed his eyes, but gathering all his strength, he opened them after a bare moment. After all he'd been through, how did Sirius Black still have the power to hurt him?

"No." Black was looking at him now, and he almost flinched from the dry fever of those eyes. "I came to you because you have always been willing to do the necessary."

"Of course." Severus' voice was almost as cold as the rest of him. "Using me for murder on demand is always necessary. I've been used for that before. But I'd always thought that with you, it worked the other way round."

"I can see that was the wrong way to go about it." Black was rueful, now. "I don't have enough energy to goad you into killing me, and it might not have worked anyway." The man had the effrontery to look at Severus with a certain amount of . . . respect? "You've changed, Severus."

No! No, he had not changed. Not one whit, not from the boy James Potter had hung upside down in public, not from the loyal Death Eater he'd been, not from the turncoat he'd become when he'd realised Dumbledore was his only hope. "Have I?" This was going nowhere. "No more than you, if you come to me looking for poison."  

Sharply now, as if he'd been prodded with a stick, Black replied, "There's more at stake here than a lifetime of resentments."

"That didn't stop you trying to take advantage of them." His sneer felt less than effective.

"No."

"In that case, we come to the crux of the matter." There was at least a certain amount of satisfaction in having driven Black to the point. "Tell me, then -- what is at stake? What is. . . that?" The gesture in the direction of Black's swollen abdomen was unmistakable. There was such a long silence that Severus' fingers began to twitch. He crossed his arms.

Finally, flatly, Black said, "It's Voldemort's child."

"How? You . . . child of . . . " Ghost wind rushed in Severus' ears. Cold crept along his scalp like a spider. He should have closed the window. His legs quivered as he grew light-headed. For a moment, it seemed that the ground flew up. Swaying, he grasped the wing of the chair. He managed to keep his feet, but the searing tightness in his chest made it hard to speak.

"You . . . you've led Him . . . to me." Here, he didn't say; he'd already used up all the air in his lungs. He tried to pull more back inside them, but it was slow and painful work.

"Snape!" Black spoke as loudly as his corroded voice allowed. "He doesn't know I'm here."

"As if He won't come looking." Severus took another small wrench of air. "He'll never let go of what is His."

"You'll make sure He can't have it."

Arrogant assurance was something that never faded, then. "You fool." And when had Black developed confidence in his abilities? Bitterness spilled from his lips. "Why couldn't you stay dead?"

"I didn't have much choice."

The words were blander than they should have been. He'd had his worst nightmare visited on him, and Black was damned well going to share in the suffering.

"There is always a choice!" The shout burst from Severus' strained throat. "Your choice was to come here. If I help you, Voldemort will know I'm a traitor. He'll torture me to death. If I kill you, He's lost his spawn, and He'll do the same." A hacking cough ripped from him.

"I . . . I didn't mean to . . . "

"Naturally." Black wasn't smart enough to accomplish such a thing except by accident. "However, I have to admit that for you, the result is perfect. I lose my life painfully either way." If Black had done it on purpose, it would have been diabolically clever. Now, it was merely a cosmic joke.

Black shook his head, face grimmer at the hasty movement, and put his hands up. "It's my death I'm after, not yours!"

"Since you're so insistent, my best option is to give you straight back to Papa." He paused thoughtfully. "Your death will be the end result, I assure you. You should be perfectly satisfied."

"No."

The horror in that one word was all that Severus could have hoped for. He'd finally got through to that half-wit.

"Yes." His smirk dripped satisfaction. "And I think it will go far toward proving my loyalty. It's seldom enough that I have the chance to solidify my standing with Voldemort. There won't be any whinging from the Light Brigade, either -- if, as you say, no one knows you're here."

Well, the room did need a good cleaning, didn't it? For this occasion, he'd cheerfully sop up all the blood and bits. He sat back and eyed Black narrowly, waiting for the explosion.

"There's more, I said." Black gave him a piercing look from behind a wall of calm. "You're not stupid. You must realise what this child is for."

Of course. "He wants . . . a new body."

"One that's all His own. And He's patient enough to wait for it. When He gets it, He'll be unstoppable."

Revulsion at the whole idea and the desire to push Black to the limit gave way to his regrettable curiosity. "How, pray tell, were you chosen to be the mum? Something in your aproned past that I should know about?"

Black had the unmitigated gall to chuckle. "You know, there are things about you that I never appreciated before, Snape."

Stunned, Severus just stared. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He took two steps back before he came to his senses. "I'd just as soon they stayed that way." He strode up to the bed and tried to loom alarmingly, hands on the counterpane, but suspected that he merely looked like a man who needed something to lean on. "How did this happen?"

"Just lucky, I guess." The expression on Black's face was one he'd known many times from behind his own skin.

Snape could feel the blood leaving his face. "You fucking . . . you . . . "

"Forget I said that, okay?" Black suddenly looked very tired. "I . . . apologise."

Which was the most mind-numbing thing he'd heard yet. He straightened so fast that he stumbled, his feet turning back to the kitchen.

He thumped into one of the hard kitchen chairs and leaned his head into his hands. Black was behaving very strangely. If Severus hadn't used every way he knew to verify that it was a human being, and, in fact, Sirius Black, he'd swear the man in his bed was a perfect stranger. There had to be some way to pry the truth out, to force him to show his hand. There was no Veritaserum, and it probably wouldn't have worked in any event, but there had to be something around here that would suffice.

He pulled open cupboard doors one after the other, looking for anything he could use.

Not Firewhiskey, he thought, as he shoved aside ancient jars of mouldering spices and a petrified half-loaf of bread. Even the mice had not been desperate enough to eat it. In Black's appalling condition -- his brain insisted on inserting the phrase 'delicate condition,' and he shoved it hastily away -- Firewhiskey would probably kill him. Not wine, either; it wasn't enough.

Everything was always too much or never enough.

The past hours were no exception. He wasn't sure how much more he could take. He had to get his answers and get Black out before anything worse happened. There'd been a promising start to his holiday, but it was over now.

He pushed his hair back with stiff, dirty fingers.   There! Behind a dust-thick tin of dried grindelia leaves was a bottle -- some kind of Muggle spirits that had been in there since time out of mind. Gran'mere had called it . . . Scottish.

He cracked the seal and filled his now-empty mug. Eyeing it with suspicion, he swirled it round. It looked fairly innocuous. He sipped it cautiously. It tasted like wyvern piss.

Good.

He drank the contents down and filled it again.

By the time he returned, Black was sitting up, leaning back against the headboard, his eyes closed. From the wet scratch of his breathing, it must have taken some effort to get there.

"You." He held out the mug to Black. "Drink this."

"What is it?"

"What do you care? You're the one who's after leaving here in a sheet."

When Black glared daggers at him, he put the mug to his own mouth and drank, making a great point of actually consuming the rotgut.

Black took the drink and sniffed at it, the liquor sloshing only a little. Brows raised, he gave Severus a sidelong look. One sip. Two. The lines on his face lifted almost imperceptibly. His lips seemed to draw a bit of colour from the drinking, and they parted in a sigh. "Glenfiddich." He cradled the stained white stoneware as if it were fine china. Relaxed, with his eyes half closed in pleasure, Black took on a look very much like . . . youth.

"Oh, I never thought to taste this again." Another sip, and his eyes closed completely. "Thank you, Snape."

The man should have been strangled at birth.

Severus paused to count the ways in which his life would have been better if so, and by the time he made six he thought perhaps he could keep from shrieking with rage. His nails drilled shallow indentations in the shabby velvet of the comfortable chair. This wasn't going as planned, and the sight of Black, all but in ecstasy, sickened him. The rapt face, the long fingers around the ugly chipped mug, they turned his stomach. He wanted to weep.

Oily, his voice was as oily as his hair, as filthy as his thoughts. "It's just a little something to loosen your tongue."

Black didn't so much as quiver. He didn't open his eyes. So superior, even now.

"No need. I have no secrets to keep at this point. Not from you." Black tipped up the mug with a sigh of appreciation.

"You . . . you . . . " he couldn't keep his voice from cracking. This was not the way it was supposed to be. Not at all.

"It's all right."

"No! It's not all right!" He writhed inside, all the indignities from years before tormenting him. He could see himself as a colourless boy, hiding in the shadows, following Black just for a glimpse of his smiling face, smiling at his friends, always at them, never at him. His insides shriveled with the memory of envying Peter Pettigrew, the lowest form of wizardkind, simply because he was accepted into the magical circle.

"I'll tell you. I'll tell you anything. Just ask me." Black's timbre was a ghost of the past, a rough-scratched reminder of what he'd wanted so badly, all those years ago.

He choked down the words that threatened to spill from his throat. He could not ask that question now. He needed to ascertain the facts first. "Again, I want to know: how did He impregnate you?"

Black rolled his eyes. Severus couldn't help his fingers clenching in response.

"I don't know how, exactly. You can try using a pensieve, but to be truthful, I wasn't conscious for all of it. I don't know if it would tell you anything useful."

"I never expect anything from you to be useful." Severus looked him up and down disdainfully. This creature was not going to keep him from the knowledge he needed. "And I suppose you were hiding a womb under your robes all this time."

"Snape, for all I know, he borrowed the damn thing from the neighbors like a cup of sugar!" One beat later, Black looked sickened at what he'd just said. "Oh, fuck. I never thought about it that way before. I could be the proud owner of something that used to belong to Bellatrix. Or, heaven help us, some poor muggle who never did anything to deserve it. No, He'd never use a muggle womb to hold this."

"You didn't care? You didn't see fit to ask?" Anger flared inside his skull. "Come on, you can do better than that. You were always sticking that wet nose where it didn't belong."

"It wasn't a tea party!" Black looked down. "I didn't want to know. I've never been like you, Snape. I couldn't . . . I . . . " he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing hard.

"Of course not. You could never be like nasty, disgusting Severus Snape, consorting with the ultimate evil," he snarled.

"That's not what I meant!" Black fingered the blanket covering him. "I just wanted him to go away, all right?" He sighed deeply. "Could I possibly have another shot of that Scotch?"

The polite request had him halfway to his feet before he could be amazed. He didn't bother to correct the man. "Fine. But don't think I'm done here."

"I know." The sunken rings around Black's eyes made his need plain, so Severus went and got more liquor. He poured the mug full for the dog, downed it himself, and refilled it. Returning, he handed it over, hoping it would actually work this time.

Black took a deep draught of the liquor before he looked up again. "What else?"

"How did He find you?"

"Shit, as if I could answer that! He's got fucking antennae, doesn't he? I was behind the Veil, you know that, just wandering aimlessly one day . . . well, there are no days or nights, I was just . . . there . . . and He was there . . . I thought I was seeing things until He grabbed hold of my mind and started rummaging."

"What was He doing there?"

"I don't know for sure. I -- I think -- bodily functions stop there." Black lifted a hand to his clean-shaven, if dirty, face, and Severus realised that, as far as he could tell, his hair hadn't grown in a year either. "Human bodies keep themselves going from day to day, if you feed them. His sorcered body must need enormous magical energy to keep it going -- haven't you noticed He's not looking well?"

Severus nodded once, though he hadn't seen Voldemort in months. "Go on."

"I think the time He spends behind the Veil allows Him to conserve His energy."

"Fine." The drink must be having an effect on him. "And now you're here."

"Yes."

"And you got here by Floo. Calling out the name of my location."

"Yes."

He lowered his face to Black's, putting them almost nose to nose. Very softly, very smoothly, he asked, "Who heard you?"

"No one! No one, I promise. I'd made it a few rooms down the corridor before I found one with a fire going. The Death Eaters were Stunned. With what they both laid on me full blast, they must have been out for hours."

"How did you know where I was?"

"I didn't. Not for sure. But -- Dumbledore. Years . . . years ago he told me you went to your cottage . . . to Summerland."

That mealy-mouthed old bastard. Of course Dumbledore knew where he was. It was no use asking how. "Then I just have one more question."

"What?"

It should have been a scream, but it wasn't. Nothing betrayed him. "Why did you send me to the Shrieking Shack?" There was not even a hint of what was boiling up under his skin. If he were a dog like Black, he'd be howling for blood right now, his fangs dripping saliva. Severus seethed with impatience, the silence grinding his veneer of calm thinner.

More silence. Black was taking too long. This wasn't a Potions NEWT, it was a simple question. After a score of years spent wondering why, he would wait no longer. "Answer me!"

"Because . . . because I fancied you," said Black sadly, as if he weren't out to break Severus with his words.

That was still the result.

"You fancied me. So therefore, of course, you would kill me." Shocked beyond belief, he waited for whatever would come next from the mouth of this impostor.

"I never meant to! Never! You must believe that." Thundercloud eyes opened finally and stared into his own. "I only wanted to scare you away." The grief swirling in those eyes almost pulled him in.

"Yes," he said stiffly. "Scare me away." Silence stretched between them until Severus thought he would snap. "I . . . I worshipped you." The vast emptiness that admission carved into him, with only the hard, brittle crust of him left on the outside . . .   It was unspeakable. He had spoken it.

"I knew that. I'm sorry," said the voice, the voice of the man he couldn't look at, the one who was in his bed, the one who carried something he didn't even have a name for.

"You." He cleared his throat carefully. "Knew." He didn't think there could be anything more devastating than the admission itself. There was. This was it.

The ultimate humiliation, the scorched earth of his life. Severus' stomach lining burned. "You were willing to kill another boy for the crime of . . . an unfortunate attachment." He was going to vomit.

"No! No, I swear! I tried everything else first, but nothing could keep you gone. That was why I did all those horrible pranks. That night . . . Prongs -- he was in on it with me, he was supposed to grab you once you saw the werewolf . . . " His voice faded away.

When had Black's hand covered his own? He wanted to pull it away, had to pull it away, get away, stop this train wreck before he could never stand upright again.

He couldn't.

As he tried to free himself, something odd was happening in his head. It felt very much as if he were pulling memories out of his mind to put them in a pensieve.

Except there was no pensieve. He raised his eyes.

Black seemed to be in agony. Paler than he'd been last night, if that was possible, his other hand was pressed against his temple. To Severus' own faraway astonishment, he wanted to stop Black's pain. Incomprehensible . . . so he did nothing at all.

Black's face finally cleared as the tendrils of Severus' memories returned and settled in place.

"I can't even say how sorry," said Black. "I don't know how. There's no way this can be remedied by words." He paused, staring at Severus, but it felt more like being stared into. "You're a Legilimens."

Severus nodded, no longer able to respond any other way.

"Come in, then. I invite you."

"I am not a vampire," he scoffed. But when Black looked him in the eyes, he felt unbalanced; Severus was falling -- No, no, he wanted to say, I won't, I can't, but somehow Black seduced him, as easily as he would have two decades ago. Sirius Black had only ever needed a few words -- or just the sight of his face -- to turn Severus from any course he'd determined, no matter how sensible.

He went.

He was in a dank, dark hall only half lit by torchlight. It felt as if the ceiling was pressing down; the stillness was almost stifling. He recognised the dungeons, but the walls were alive, moving, made of memories that he couldn't quite see. They beckoned him on to the door at the end. It was open a crack, and he could hear raised voices. He pushed at the door, and it swung open silently.

"I know what you did, ye dragon-spawned little bastard."

Filch, angry, more contemptuous than he'd ever seen him, was glowering at a teenaged Black. The boy stood with his back straight, trembling only slightly.

"Oh? And what's that, then?"

"You tried to kill young Snape by turning that werewolf friend of yours on him. For that, you get detention! How dare they send you to me! I ain't goin' to dirty my hands with the likes of you." The bent, stringy-haired man turned his back, and a strange expression crossed Black's face.

"You -- you don't need me to get your hands dirty." His voice started out breathy, but gained strength. "You're already filthy."

Filch turned back, scorn dripping from his words. "I ain't a devil, like you. I ain't one for murderin' the innocent. But if you don't shut yer gob, you'll find out what I am for."

"He deserved to die!" To Snape's amazement, Black looked scared, but determined. "I know what you're for! I'll bet you're just like him, just like Snape, that's why you like him! You're a greasy foul poofter that the world's better rid of!"

A hard backhand cracked across Black's cheek, leaving a red print, and Severus drew a shaky breath. Surely, this time Black would back off. Instead, he pressed on.

"Yes, Filch, why don't you hit me?" His sneer looked . . . forced. "You're good for nothing else, you rotten squib! Can't cast a spell, can you? You're worse than those stinking mudbloods -- "

With a roar, Filch grabbed him by the shoulders. Even Severus, so far from boyhood, shrank away from his fury. "We'll see whose blood is pure!"

Severus knew Black could have fought away; he was as tall and broad as, and decades younger than, Filch. But he didn't. Filch wrestled the boy to the wall and slammed him face-first against it, knocking the boy's breath out in a grunt. He slapped Black's hands into manacles dangling from the rough-hewn walls. Then, stepping back a pace, he reached out and ripped Black's shirt open from neck to hem. The fabric rent with a harsh sound that filled the room.

The cane Filch grabbed off that same wall laid into Black's now-bare back with a sickening slash, raising an angry red welt. Black's silence vibrated.

The cane fell again and again. Severus wanted to turn his face away, but he couldn't. It seemed to go on forever. Thin stripes of blood welled on the pale skin of the boy's back. Black held out for longer than Severus would have believed possible, but finally he was reduced to screaming, then sobbing, clinging to the wall with his whole body for support. In the end, he crumpled to the floor when Filch released the manacles.

Filch looked at him disgustedly, squatted down, and pulled the limp body up over his shoulder. He rose and walked out of the room without looking back.

He was choking; he couldn't breathe. As he gasped and shook, he came to realise that there were warm firm arms around him, supporting him. He pushed himself away from Black's shoulder.

"You . . . you taunted him into it." Sweat must be dripping into his eyes. He wiped away the sting.

"It's a gift." The wry twist of Black's mouth spoke of a humility Severus had never seen -- could barely believe now. "Had to," he mumbled, looking away. "Couldn't live with myself, otherwise."

"And still it didn't beat any sense into you." His voice was as steady and disdainful as he could make it.

"Nothing ever has yet."

Without another word, Severus stood, swaying. He lurched out of the bedroom into the parlour, where he collapsed onto the dilapidated velvet sofa.

Hours later, when the afternoon sun cast its glow into his eyes, Severus awoke. He felt like he'd caught a Blister-Brain hex, and it had spread. Even his fingers hurt. Hell, the dust motes trickling through the shaft of sunlight hurt. He rubbed his forehead carefully. That Scottish was truly dangerous. He rose carefully as well, placing a single foot on the floor first to test whether blood movement made his head hurt more.

He sincerely hoped Black was feeling the same. Fucker.  

Unbidden, the image of Black's caning slid back before his eyes, making his already uncertain stomach roll. Faux-noble Gryffindor shite. Severus himself would never have done it. If he'd nearly killed Black, he'd have sent out announcements, not prodded Filch into beating him senseless.

If Black had been looking for sympathy by showing him that memory, he was going to be disappointed.

Most disappointed.

Severus walked very carefully into the kitchen, and very carefully prepared himself a palliative.

*

Black's eyes were still closed, and he appeared to be asleep. The ropes of magic binding the foetus to his body were so thick and heavy that to the experienced eye, they glowed faintly even through the thin blanket. Leaning in more closely, Severus felt his nostrils flare at the smell of a man who hadn't washed in a year. Apparently life behind the veil lacked amenities.

"Do stop looming," snapped Black irritably.

Severus eyed his old enemy, now his . . . prisoner? Patient? No, 'patient' was never a part of Sirius Black. Prisoner, then. "Why, it's our newest resident of Azkaban South," he drawled. His palm itched when Black looked at the ceiling. "I hope you don't think that little display last night changed anything."

Black shrugged and looked to one side. "I thought you'd at least enjoy seeing it, if nothing else."

He'd have thought so, too.

Enough of this nonsense. Severus sat and steepled his fingers together. "I want answers, and I want them now." He stared at the bones of Black's face, half-trying to fit the boy onto the man. It was impossible.

"Well, I want a trip to the loo, and unless it's part of your interrogation technique, I suggest that comes first."

"Don't be so sure of yourself," Severus snarled, furious again. It wasn't enough that Black had to ruin what was left of his life, but he had to be a mouthy prat as well, didn't he?

"Safe to say I'm less sure of myself now than ever before," Black mumbled as he stuck a bare leg out from under the sheet.

How had Severus forgot that Black was naked, covered only with soot? He wasn't strong enough to stand, and his legs gave way. The momentum flung him sideways, his bony ribs connecting hard with Severus' knobby knees. Severus missed his instinctive grab, then winced at the grunt as Black landed in a heap on the floor.

"Clumsy oaf." He moved forward and pulled the naked, smelly, blackened Black up by the shoulders, taking most of his weight as they moved forward. For a man so scrawny, that was not inconsiderable. Could the magical bindings could have weight of their own? It didn't seem possible that the skin-and-bone thing beside him could be so heavy.

"I don't need your help to have a piss," said Black as they got him seated.

"I should hope not," sniffed Severus. "Still, as long as you're in here, you'll have a bath. I can't stand the smell." And with that, he snapped the door shut.

Only minutes later, he heard water running. The silly arse couldn't stand up, but he thought he could get himself in and out of the bath. Severus sighed. Why, again, should he suffer this fool, when the alternative looked better and better?

Black looked up wide-eyed when Severus poked his head in. Sure enough, he'd been trying to pull himself off the toilet using the towel bar, and had almost succeeded in falling headfirst into the great clawfooted tub. Good thing a head-knock against the cast iron wouldn't have damaged anything important. Black swayed in place, half-hanging from the towel bar, until Severus managed to plunk him, none too gently, on the side of the tub. He slid in with a splash.

"Sapio!" A cascade of shimmering bubbles flowed from his wand, covering Black up to his neck. They dripped in blobs off the high rim of the tub. Severus only just managed to keep himself from adding a small soapy pyramid to the top of Black's head as an artistic gesture.

"Sparing my blushes, Snape? I can assure you, I've no modesty left." Black waved in the general area of his camouflaged midsection.

"Hardly," he purred. "I just can't abide that much of you at once." And in truth, he didn't like to see Black this way. There was no pride in standing against a man this wretched -- one who couldn't fight his way into a bath. It was almost an embarrassment. Black was scarecrow thin, and none could question who was ugly and greasy now. Then, there was that thing in his belly. An abomination . . . yet it fascinated Severus beyond measure.   He wanted to touch it, feel the rise of Black's belly under his hand. "You look like you crawled away from the rag and bone shop."  

"I told you, I've been dead." Black seemed indifferent to what should have been a blistering insult. "You should try being dead yourself; works wonders for one's attitude. In fact," he examined the bubbles caught in the fine hairs on the back of his hand, "I am undoubtedly the only man in history to have been both pregnant and dead, and at the same time." He tilted his head in what looked like genuine curiosity. "You could've just spelled me clean."

"No, I couldn't have," Severus responded shortly.

"Oh. So your magic doesn't work on me either. I thought maybe . . . I was hoping that it might." For a man in a tubful of bubbles, he looked quite morose. "Still, there are always muggle poisons. I doubt that Voldemort thought to provide protection against them."

"Nothing that would affect you physically seems to act. Only the diagnostic spells had any effect. Also," he continued, lifting a matted hank of dark hair between the tips of two fingers, "I wanted to personally make sure that all the fleas went down the drain. I feared I wouldn't be able to banish them." He was willing to let the whole issue of poisons go for now.

"Snape, why am I here?"

Severus stared at him. The man had refined aggravation to its very essence. "Does coming back from the dead leave one senile, as well? I have no idea why you're here. You're the one who had that crackbrained notion."

"You're a very clever man, Severus."

Severus had been reaching across the tub for a back brush. Jostled, the brush fell away. The mound of bubbles parted with a splat, but the rift closed without a trace. The foam pulled back together seamlessly, looking just as before. Black went on, eyes narrow, peering intently at Severus' face. "I have no doubt that you could've rid the world of this, and me, by now."

"You've been smoking something stronger than I have." Severus' tone could have bludgeoned a Ukrainian Ironbelly. "Get this through your thick head, you rat-eater. I am on holiday. While on holiday, I am a human being. I do not whore death for Voldemort nor for Dumbledore, and certainly not for you. Drown yourself, if that's what you want."

"I can't!"

Only as he slammed the door behind him did he realise that Sirius Black had once again buggered him out of any answers.

Suddenly, he felt infinitely weary. He leaned against the dusty flowered wallpaper just to rest for a moment. It had to be the hangover. Should he take a draught of Pepper-Up? No. He should simply march back in there and confront Black. Perhaps threats would be effective. Severus had no intention of disposing of the man, but pain was always an encouragement. There were non-magical ways of producing pain. Determination straightened his back. Certainty bloomed into a thin smile.

Striding through the door in a whirl of robes that would probably be wasted in such a small room, he turned to state his demands. Black was sleeping peacefully, head against the back of the tub, mouth slightly open. The room was so quiet he could hear Black's faint snores.

Again.

Had the man no sense of self-preservation? Well, that had been answered months ago.

A scowl twisted Severus' face. Once more he'd been thwarted. Worse yet, Black was still streaked with soot. He could wake him up and question him, but afterward the soot would remain, and something would have to be done about it. Black obviously didn't have the strength to wash himself. This, like every other filthy chore, would fall to Severus Snape. He'd as soon do it with no eyes on him.

The rat's nest of scrofulous hair hanging over the back of the tub would be better off gone. He muttered a soft "Scalpara!" -- only to dodge as the ricochet sheared one of his towels in half. Tossing the pieces down, he unearthed a small pair of scissors from the cabinet, but using it was like gnawing at graphorn hide. Apparently the protections on Black extended to the physical. Never mind, it would have to be dealt with later.

He applied the soapy sponge cautiously, hoping to remove the filth without waking his charge. He could not face this, but he had to. Ah, yes. How many times could a story be told?

He whispered the names of the bones of the body to himself while he covered their attendant muscle and skin with soap, as if the sound of his voice could protect him from what he was doing. Gently he washed the clavicle, anterior humerus, radius and ulna, on down to the carpals. He was inured to monotony. This mechanical cleansing of inanimate flesh would be over soon.

Pisiform. Lunate. Scaphoid.   Hamate. Trapezoid. Trapezium. Capitate. His concentration was already fragmenting. There was the three-dimensional reality of his hands on Black's skin and then there was what it could have meant, once. The two things were separated by as thick a wall as he could mortar. Proximal phalange. Middle phalange. Distal phalange. The wall crumbled abruptly. Severus was fondling Black's hand.

A groan welled in him for the pathetic mooncalf he'd been, a boy who'd have given anything just for this, just to touch --

Stop. This was nothing, it was . . . nothing, except that Sirius Black was under his hands and utterly helpless, his skin softer than Severus would have expected. The sponge floated away, unnoticed. Black was here, they were both in his refuge, away from everything and everyone, and Severus could do anything. Anything he wanted. There was nothing to stop him. His hands slid against Black's wet flesh, as heedful as if he were handling a precious specimen.

His prick was already hard.

Something about the mounded belly called to Severus in a way separate from its Blood Magic. He'd known -- yes, known -- all along that on the inside, he was just as good as Black and his devil-may-care teenaged cronies, although no one else agreed. This was final, living proof. This brought Black down to the level of misery always reserved as a special hell for Severus. Now, Sirius Black and Severus Snape were on even terms. They were both servants of Voldemort.

The golden Gryffindor light had dimmed.

He explored the heavy abdominal rise, amazed at the amount of magic involved in its binding. It shifted sensuously around his fingers, inviting him, urging him on. The Blood Magic, old, so old, had a siren's lure, and he could still feel that lure after all these years. It sparked a wild flare of pleasure that eddied inside him. A murmur from Black snapped his head around, but the man was still dead to the world.

Shifting, he ran a hand down one skinny leg, hair flattening under his palm, all the way to a long, thin foot. Delicate bones moved under his fingers. He caressed along them, sliding his fingertips between the toes. It had been so long, and was it better or worse that this was Black? His hand shook. He cupped the foot, kneading. His right hand was knuckle-white on the rim. His sleeve was soaked, and the dark cotton shirt stuck to his sweaty back. Bubbles crept up past his elbow. Severus pressed his aching cock against the hard warmth of the tub.

If he couldn't see it, it wasn't happening.

His breath came faster as he stroked up the far leg. The muscles were flabby and weak, not hard as they'd once been. Not that he'd ever had the chance to know for sure, but Sirius had always looked solid. Hard-bodied in his damned Muggle jeans, always showing off the tight curve of his arse and the length of his lean thighs . . . trousers so tight that if you cared to look, you could see the wares on display in front. Severus had always made certain not to look.

He was nearly back to that strange, mesmerising mound again when he felt a nudge. Something prodded at his wrist, and it wasn't Black's hand.

Oh, God.

There was nothing to stop him. Black was his prisoner. Wasn't Severus Snape malevolent and ruthless? That was what they all thought -- his students, his compatriots. He'd made a good job of that. Black took him for a cold-blooded murderer even now, after years of fielding nothing more dangerous than rudeness and contempt. Why even hesitate? No one would question it, least of all Black. Why shouldn't he give in to this awful animal longing?

His hand wrapped around that hard cock, the soapy water easing his grip. He couldn't see it, but it was happening.

He'd never been in love. All he had to his name was this childish infatuation that had been his private albatross for a quarter of a century. And he'd seldom truly hated, whatever Potter might think; he simply saw others for who they were, however little that might be. Now, he was holding the penis of the one man he'd loved, then hated, beyond all others. If he'd been standing, his weakness would have dropped him to his knees. As it was, he slumped against the edge of the tub with a moan.

Wait. It wasn't only his moan. It was Black's too, and he involuntarily tightened his grip, loath to let go of this one thing he'd wanted for all his life, for as long as he could remember wanting anything. A gasp answered him. He looked defiantly into Black's face, ready to tell him to get fucked, tell him -- something -- and stared into a pair of hot, dazed eyes.

"Don't stop," Black croaked. "If you don't kill me now, He will later. I want this. Please."

"Yes." He'd meant to take what he wanted. But there was something about the sound of Black's voice asking him Oh, God wanting it that made everything different, that made his head spin. He stroked up the shaft, feeling its weight and stiffness, letting each finger find its own hold. The silky skin, the hardness beneath, and the foreskin under his thumb -- all of it was so good, so hot, so right.

He pushed his hips hard against the tub, grinding his cock against it until he cried out. That made it real. Black's eyes were closed. He didn't want that.

"Sirius." That made those eyes open. What he was doing made them kindle, a fire he'd never seen directed his way.

"Severus, yes, oh -- harder!" Black clutched the sides of the tub. He tried to reach up for Severus' other hand but slid down, and Severus held him up with one arm around his shoulders, letting the dirty hair trail over his arm as he leaned in. Both of them puffed and panted, faces nearly pressed together.

Severus held on tight and pumped the slippery cock until Black wailed, almost deafening him, spending himself into the bubbles. Severus felt a curious lightness rising, lightness with a spark of heat that sizzled from his groin down to his aching knees and back up his spine. He let Black's softening cock slip from his hand and grabbed his own through his trousers, wet hand slipping on the already-stained fabric. He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't open the zip. He had to come.

"Yes, I want to see you come, that's right," Sirius crooned in his ear, or maybe it was only his fevered imagination as the heat overwhelmed him and he came, soaking his crotch and falling forward against Black's neck.

*

The hair was unbelievable. It hung lank over Black's shoulders, ratted, matted -- Severus hadn't enough wits left to think of another appropriate rhyming word. The man mustn't have cut it the whole year he was at Grimmauld Place. It was full of greasy soot. After Severus had cleaned himself up and freshened the bathwater, he figured he might as well finish the job. Neither of them had spoken since . . . since they'd both come, but the silence wasn't oppressive. He'd soaped the hair once already. It needed another scrub.

He didn't want to think about what just happened, and tending to Black allowed that. Maybe Black wasn't thinking about it either. Maybe dead was a lonely place, and it didn't matter whose hands salved the wound.

As he rubbed shampoo into Black's scalp, words came out of his mouth. "What was it like there?"

"Uh?" Black sounded like he'd been nearly asleep, which was no surprise. An hour of hot bathwater and an orgasm had turned him into an unmoving lump.

"Death. What was it like?"

Black seemed to be hunting for words. That was no surprise, either. "It was . . . different."

"Thank you for that scintillating evaluation." Severus was tempted to yank out a snarl, but he was too sated just now.

"It's hard to explain. I just ended up in this . . . nowhere. Then, after a while, there were people around."

"Who?" Severus paused to pour more shampoo on the slimy mess.

"Everybody, anybody. Dead people. Muggles, witches, wizards. Young, old. I could see them, but they couldn't see me."

"Their loss." His snide sotto voce comment did not go unnoticed.

"Shut it, if you want to hear. Sometimes, I walked right through them. They looked and felt like ghosts to me, but they couldn't see me at all. I tried to communicate with them, anybody to talk to, you know? After a while, I was inside one for more than a second or two, and I realised I could see what they were seeing." Black toyed with the bubbles with one hand. They wriggled happily and popped with a small squeak.

"And what do dead people see?" It was more to keep Black talking than because he really cared.

"Their lives, mostly."

"Stupefying."

"It wasn't, really. It wasn't so much what happened as how they felt about it." At Severus' snort, he said, "I was there with them. I felt what they felt."

Severus fought dizziness, holding onto Black's head to keep himself steady. And the irony of that . . . "That . . . what you did. Last night. You saw my memories."

"I experienced them with you."

The horror and humiliation of that marched side by side with a thrill of spite. Black knew how it felt.   A small noise from below made him realise his fingers were curled like talons, wrenching at the sodden hair. He might have released it, but he found he couldn't. It was hard to force words out. "Gave you a good laugh, did it?" The sourness matched the bile rising in his throat.

"I didn't mean to. I didn't know I could do it to you."

He snorted. "You're lying."

"Severus, I'm not lying. Who would I have practised on? And I'm not laughing. Not last night, either." Black tried to look round at him, but his iron grip made that impossible, thank God.

"Fine." There was nothing he could do about it now, and he shoved the knowledge ruthlessly aside. His fingers loosened fractionally in the tangles. Black exhaled and relaxed a bit.

"I mean it. I thought a lot about things there, behind the Veil. Had loads of time."

Severus blinked. "A year is not -- "

"Time's different there." He gestured toward his expansive belly.

"Ah. About that little detail . . . "

"Well, turns out You Know Who knows how to cross the Veil. Been going back and forth for ages. The day I saw Him, I thought the place'd finally sent me completely round the twist." He shuddered. "Too bad I was wrong."

"Well?" Severus snapped. His patience had limits, even after the only sex he'd had in much more than a decade.

"Don't know if He really planned this bit out. I know damned well He was surprised to find me there. More of an experiment, I think. Maybe it was just for fun." He paused to let them both not think about that. "Oh, He wants the child, all right. The first few tries didn't take."

From the sound of his voice, it was apparent that one could feel physical pain behind the Veil. Black drew a deep breath. Severus was barely breathing at all.

"Who knows where He found the essence for the other half of the job. That's how these things usually work, right? You need two." Black inhaled deeply. "He had His own spunk saved up -- from before. Remember how He was always on about conquering death? That was part of it."

"And how do you know this?"

"Talkative bastard, then, isn't He? And you just know He'd be the one bragging about his jizz."

A thought occurred to Severus, one that both appalled and intrigued him. "Could you -- could you feel Him, too?"

"Merlin's balls, no."

He could see the gooseflesh that rose on Black's body despite the warm water. He didn't blame him.

"Rinse." Black slid down in the tub, and Severus worked the soap out of his hair. "Up."

There was no answer. Black was asleep again.

*

Severus awoke with no sense of grim foreboding. That, in itself, was strange, considering that Sirius Black had appeared on his hearth heavy with child, they'd wanked, and Black was now sleeping beside him, snoring like a Grim.

He needed to check the git for a deviated septum.

Then he catalogued himself. Bodily, he was fine, only the usual small twinges of having done considerable physical work not long ago. He felt quite good, in fact. His mind was clear for the first time in . . . about two days. Obviously sex agreed with him. Those other things that had happened made no sense, and maybe there was no sense to be made of them. Right now, he was hungry. Severus was nothing if not a practical man. Pulling on his robes, he headed to the kitchen.

It was only after diving into an enormous pile of scrambled egg, toast and bacon that he spat out his mouthful of egg.

Black was a plant.

The very idea instilled visions of Black striding from the forest, vines wrapped like asps round his arms and oak leaves braided in his hair, clothed only in a tunic that glowed brown against his faintly greenish skin. Oh, for fuck's sake. That arsehole had really got to him.

What if Black were here under orders?

Blood of Salazar! Somehow, Black had made his brains leak out, and not just through his cock. In all his work to find out what -- or whom -- had toppled out of his fireplace, he'd neglected an Imperius-specific revealing charm.

That would certainly explain Black's changed nature. There was no reason to suppose that if twelve years in Azkaban hadn't changed him, a year of being dead would have.

Black was spying on him, acting for the Dark Lord. It sickened him. It was like somehow having Voldemort's frigid bony hands on him, being touched by that vile creature even when He was so far away, and worse yet, doing so through someone whose hands . . . he swallowed hard . . . could have provided such pleasure. Hands that could have given him the puerile boy's happiness he still apparently craved -- it seemed there was no statute of limitations on stupidity -- while stealing his soul and condemning his life on Voldemort's pyre.

He was barely able to smother the sobbing breath that wanted to force itself from his chest. This indignity, this violation, burned more brightly and painfully than the Dark Mark. He hadn't been tricked into that; it had been his own grievous mistake to make. Surely Voldemort couldn't know that he might have interest in Black. But then, He was an accomplished Legilimens. Who knew what He might have seen in Black's mind? Voldemort wouldn't hesitate to use whatever He could -- especially if He found a vulnerability of Snape's. That would please Him more than anything.

He would reveal this crime. Black was a spy. Black would never act toward him as he had if he weren't spell-bound.

There could be no hesitation. Black was even more of a danger to those cretins he called friends -- which would be fine, if not for Dumbledore and the Order -- than he was to Severus. At least Severus had come to his senses. Most likely Black's friends would not. The damage he could do was incalculable. The longer Severus put off the reckoning, the more information Black could acquire. All he's got so far is information about how you're gagging for sex, sneered a sly little voice in his mind.

Severus stood stiffly, picked up his heaping breakfast, and dropped it into the bin, plate and all. He stared into the bin for a moment as if he could decipher the future in splatters of egg. Then he shook himself and began to gather ingredients.

Something as far removed from invasive magic as possible would work best. Fortunately, Death Eaters claiming Imperius control had spurred much research into revealing the curse. There was at least one option..

Showing Imperius without attendant wand charms or spells meant using ImperioRevolo. It was a potion that didn't have to be ingested, thankfully -- ingestion wouldn't work, now that Sirius' body repelled magic. This potion could be spread on the skin. Severus would chance it.

He began to gather ingredients.

For the second time in as many days, Severus paused in the open bedroom door to look at his unwelcome guest. Black was his usual arrogant self. He even slept presumptuously, taking up all the room. Dark hair sprawled across both pillows the way the rest of Black's long legs stretched out over the bed, naked unto the day and completely untroubled. Severus could not help staring.

If looks could burn, Sirius Black would have been reduced to cinder.

Sirius Black, who'd always been all Severus Snape would never be. Handsome, happy, carefree. He came from old money, and it was obvious in the casual unconcern he showed his possessions. Severus still had a small silver cauldron that Black had left in the Potions lab at the end of fifth year. It was pretty little thing, and useful. Black had never even noticed its absence.

Sirius Black, a man who cared for nothing while the world showered him with everything.

But that was then.

He'd pissed away the lot of it, all the grace and favour life had bestowed upon him, and here he was, under the watchful eye of his oldest enemy. His stringy body showed what his life was like now. Neither world had shown him great kindness of late.  

Severus Snape surely would not.

As expected, the magical cords that his wand produced simply bounced away from Black, and he had to duck to prevent one wrapping round his neck. The man slept like the dead. Severus smirked. He strode to the bed, quickly tying Black's hands to the posts. Black was too weak to overpower him with only feet at his disposal. Now they would see the truth.

His prey moved a bit on the bed, then woke when he realised he was going nowhere. "Always thought you'd be a pervy -- " Black's sleepy half-smile faded when he saw Severus' face. Whatever was on it had the power to shut his ugly gob, at least for a moment. His voice was raw when he spoke next. "It's . . . it's all over, then."

Severus smothered his surprise. Could Black possibly realise he was under compulsion, and be able to speak of it if it were made known? There were many variations on the Imperius; undoubtedly the Dark Lord knew them all. How ironic, he thought, if Black understood what he was doing as he seduced his greasy old enemy, instead of enjoying the pleasant, all-enveloping fog that Imperio normally produced. The man must be aghast.

"Yes." The finality was clear.   He continued, knotting ropes around Black's ankles. Strangely enough, Black did not even struggle, and merely shuddered when the last knot was fixed. Perhaps the Dark Lord was slipping.

Severus drew the glass bottle from under his robes and began to dribble the contents over Black's body, from the neck down. The bare skin quivered as the cool, shimmering white liquid covered the too-prominent ribs, the domed belly with its thick, corrugated scars -- what on earth had happened to him to cause those? -- and crosshatched line of hair leading to the pale vulnerable loins. Black's limp penis twitched slightly as if it were trying to escape the rivulets, but the man himself was still.

"How long?"

"Three minutes."

The next question seemed to be dragged kicking from Black's lips. "Will it . . . hurt?"

"No." It had already hurt as much as it possibly could.

A thin sheen of sweat appeared on Black's forehead. "Look, tell Harry . . . please . . . tell him I love him. No, wait, I -- " The man was babbling now. "I didn't -- I don't want him to know about this. I don't want him to have to live through it all again. Or Remus. It's just . . . "

"Shut up."

The stony glare made Black recoil, the little that he could. "No. You can't shut me up. I need you to know -- back then, when we were children . . . I couldn't, you see? I'd lost everyone. My family hated me for it. Even Regulus, and he was my best friend when we were boys."

In the face of obvious disbelief, Black continued. "What? You don't seriously think I ran away from home because I didn't like their politics? I was sixteen! I couldn't give a rat's ass about the adult world. Until it crashed in on me, when Regulus caught me snogging an older wizard I met in the park. My loving mother told me to get out and stay out. I went. I never saw Regulus again." Black glanced quickly at Severus, as if expecting a reaction. He got none. "I couldn't be a . . . a bum bandit. A pansy."  

Black finally subsided, closing his eyes. "I thought James' parents would toss my arse out too, and I had nowhere else to go. The way they'd look at me if they knew . . . I couldn't lose my friends. They were all I had."

Perhaps it was a variant that specifically forced the victim to attempt to gain sympathy, in order to coax others into cooperation? That made a certain amount of twisted sense, although it seemed too subtle for Voldemort. It might be wise for Severus to research the matter later. He should have brought a quill; it always helped to take notes. Seconds dripped onto them like a faucet in the dark.

One minute.

As a means of obtaining cooperation, this version of the Imperius lacked something. Or the problem could be the twit it'd been used on. This was ridiculous. How long could three minutes possibly be? He scanned Black impassively. It wouldn't be long now before the potion started to change colour.

Two minutes.

The shivering body on the bed tensed even more, if that was possible. Perhaps it was a bit nippy laying out naked and wet, even though it was warm in the room, much warmer than in his dungeons. What a spineless wanker. Poor ickle Blackie couldn't stand the cold. Let this be a lesson to him for coming here.

Two and a half minutes.

It couldn't be.

Severus knew it by the seconds passing, as if each were needled into his skin, one by one by one. Something was wrong. The colour change should have started by now. In thirty seconds, Black's flesh should be vivid with the glowing crimson that denoted use of Imperio. He'd used fresh squill, always better for showing curses than dried, and shredded the lily bulb ultra-fine.

Three minutes.

It was over. He, Severus Snape, premier potions maker in England, had blended a mixture that did not work. It was insupportable. He had failed.

Or . . . had he? Could it be possible that Black was not under a compulsion curse? Bewildered, he moved from one of Black's ankles to the other, untying the ropes, completely ignoring the man on the bed . . . until the flailing made him impossible to miss. He pushed Black back without much difficulty, lost in trying to figure out what had happened.

"Snape! What the hell was that?" Black was so close that his harsh bark felt like having his ears boxed. "A day at the health spa?" Red, Black's face went red, almost the same crimson the potion should have turned.

Shoving away Black's weak grip on the sleeve of his robe, Severus started toward the door. He finally gathered his thoughts enough to answer. "I was testing for Imperius."

"What?"

He turned. Somehow Black had risen from the bed, and was coming after him, weaving only slightly. He'd opened his mouth to repeat himself when a stronger hand than he could have expected grabbed the front of his robes.

"You let me lie there thinking I was going to die!"

The fist met his jaw with all the force Black could put behind it. It wasn't much, but it was enough. His head snapped back, teeth rattling in their sockets. With pure automatic reaction, he responded, the heel of his right hand slamming upward into Black's nose.

Both of them grunted and reeled back -- Black from lack of balance, Severus from pain. A large red nose print marked the heel of his hand. He thought he might have sprained his wrist. Black, on the other hand, seemed to suffer no ill effects. Damn him! He should be squealing like a pig as blood ran from his broken nose, or dead from the slender bones that penetrated his miserable excuse for a brain. Could nothing hurt him?

If not, there were other ways to get through. He stepped forward, grabbing Black by his bony shoulders, needing to at least try to shake him limb from limb. He was caught off-guard.

Black kissed voraciously, the same way he'd done everything else all his life, determined to suck all that was vital from any encounter. Severus gave up thought of resistance and held on for dear life. His limited experience had offered him nothing like it. Lucius Malfoy, even long ago when they were sex partners, did not care to kiss. Lucius had no interest in men. He was only interested in what Severus could do for him.

It wasn't as if he had never attempted to get more. A walk down Karn Alley had hired him an almost clinical meeting of the flesh of two strangers: one who expected little and another who cared less.

There was no doubt from the way that Black kissed that he cared. He cared to create his own pleasure, at any rate, and took Severus along, ravishing his mouth with a hot dart of tongue and a voluptuous press of lips. Teeth stinging his bottom lip made him cry out as his cock rose, eager for more. He pushed Black's face away, ignoring the luxurious wet sound as their mouths parted.

As fast as he could, he stripped off his robes and tumbled the two of them onto the bed, wonder suffusing him at the warm expanse of slippery skin. To be touched on bare skin by anyone for any reason was so strange and searing that he gasped. The ImperioRevolo had a heat of its own, doubling what was already between the two men. Severus locked their legs together, rubbing himself against Black's swollen belly. He wanted it all over him; he wanted Black all over him.

As all-consuming as his hatred for Black had been for so many years, such was his desire. Perhaps it was more for what they were doing than for Black himself; he didn't know. The kisses tore at him. He had never before considered his own mouth. Lucius had thought it adequate as a receptacle for a penis, and had used it many times.  

The elation and apprehension that had surged through him while kneeling alongside the bath mingled in his veins. Sounds became indistinct as his hearing faded. He pinned Black's shoulders with his forearms -- it was easy enough -- and went back to his mouth. The softness of those cracked lips absorbed him for uncounted minutes. There was so much to discover . . . hard slippery teeth, the ridges of the palate, a curious tongue.

Severus anchored his hands in Black's hair again, holding his head down, and left the tempting, willing mouth. He followed the grain of Black's stubble, the stiff hairs brushing his lips with maddening delicacy. Every sensation burst over him without warning. Severus shivered inside his skin, cold and hot at the same time.

He tasted the skin above the beard line, relishing its warmth and smoothness, rubbing his lips against it for the pleasure to be had. He traced the lines at the corners of Black's eyes with the very tip of his tongue, and kissed the closed lids.

Black . . . Black let him.

A surge of gratitude left him weak, leaning his cheek on the lined forehead. He moaned against Black's temple and felt the vibration of an answer.

When he reached the tangle of dark hair, a faint scent tantalised him. It wasn't his simple oatmeal soap, or the catmint and thyme shampoo. If he'd been with someone else, he would have suspected a rare aromatic aphrodisiac, but in this case it couldn't be true. He sniffed, puzzled. It called him, and he pursued it, rubbing his nose in Black's hairline. The wisp of scent was as light and elusive as the smoke from the Imajica.

He inhaled deeply, and then once more. Like a puff from his pipe, it somehow calmed the riot inside him, filling him with a langorous pleasure that weighed down his limbs and slowed his mind. His very blood seemed to pulse more thickly, more sweetly, in his veins. He was caught in something. He did not understand it, nor did he care. His eyelids fell as he gave himself up, and his nose led him past the curl of an ear. He was about to move on, but stopped.

He had happened upon a pair in a dark corridor once, the boy tonguing the girl's ear. After handing out detentions and taking away house points, he'd mulled the incident over on his return to the dungeons. Surely there could be nothing of sexual appeal to either party in an ear. Still, they were young. It wasn't as if he didn't remember what he'd done for Lucius Malfoy. Fine cuisine was not important to the famished.

When he took a careful lick at the ear under his lips, he knew he'd been wrong. The very curves and lines seemed to ask him to indulge himself, and he did, licking and lipping and breathing gently on the wet swirls.   The process absorbed him completely. It took a while to realise that the rumblings he heard were Sirius' groans. Surprise registered on some level, but he could not pay it any mind.

He trailed down a tendon, tonguing hungrily at the length of Black's neck. How delicious it was, even with traces of the astringent potion smeared on it. He bit and sucked with abandon, knowing that Sirius was needy now too, needy and greedy for everything Severus could give. An arm wrapped firmly round his shoulders, holding him tight as they both whimpered.

The sounds erased his torpor, urging him faster, pushing in at him from outside while what was inside him tried to get out. Hectic impressions of things he could not put a name to invaded so intensely that he thought he might fracture. He shoved his cock against skin made potion-slick, frantically trying to outrun the overwhelming sensations.

A hand worked its way between them. Severus resisted, desperate to be close, not wanting anything in the way of what he needed so urgently, until the hand grasped his cock firmly and began to stroke.

Beyond words, he gasped raggedly in time with the rhythm, wanting to cry out but not having the means. When he came, he knew only the feel of Black's neck against his face and the smell of him.

Long gray moments later, Black tipped Severus' chin up for another kiss, but he pulled away and crawled unsteadily down between Black's sprawled legs. The cock that rested there on the rise of the belly was stiff and flushed, coated with the opalescence of potion and pre-ejaculate. Severus lowered his mouth to it and took the head in, accepting the unpleasant taste of the potion as his due. Black's cock was . . . lovely, strong and thick, and it filled his mouth as if made just for him. He attended to its every twitch and bob with an obedient tongue.

Propping himself on an elbow, he licked the beautiful thing from base to tip until Black's hands found his head, and