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Chapter Text

The glare of the morning light stabbed through Sirius Black’s closed eyelids. He could already feel the thin cracks of red shattering the whites of his eyes, could already feel the parchedness of his mouth, the tightness of the vessels beneath his skin, around the dips of his now heavy eye bags. The mental tracing of his deterioration was a poor way to wake up, but this was how he woke up before he had fallen through the Veil -two years ago- and this was how he woke up now he had returned.

He had very little to wake up sober for. Another darkness he swam within before he had even opened his eyes: the crushing realisation that in the time he had been tucked away behind the Veil, the war had been fought and ended- the lives of his friends had been lost: Remus, Tonks. Innocent, good lives had been eradicated whilst his had been on pause. It was enough to make anyone choose to drink themselves into oblivion each night. Grief, loss, bitterness. It was a toxic blend that made alcohol seem like the only antidote.

In the moments between his hangovers and his drunkenness, Harry told him what had happened since he had been gone. He learned about the heroics of his godson, the bravery, the selflessness. He learned that his friends and Order comrades had fought courageously. If this had been it- perhaps he would be more amenable to recovering from his grief, the disjointedness of his timeline.

But bitterness was poisoning him. The bitterness that not only had his friends fought heroically, but also someone he despised: Severus Snape.

Snape was a hero in Harry’s eyes. A man who gave his life to ensure victory for the Order. A man who, supposedly, had stayed strong, had stayed on the path of a spy no matter how hard things became for him.

He argued with Harry, unable to hold back his distrust and disgust the more he drank in the night. During one bitter night, he remembered telling his godson that he was a fool to think all this of a man who- he soon learned- had killed Dumbledore in cold blood and had been Voldemort’s right-hand man up until his last breath. He was the man who had shared the prophecy that had set Voldemort onto Harry as a baby- setting all the dominoes in place to have James and Lily murdered that night.

Harry had argued back at him. Insisting that Snape was not to know that the portion of the prophecy he had overheard would lead to him- that a wizard as smart as Voldemort would believe in something as woolly as divination to support his campaigns. That as soon as he had learned that Voldemort was to pursue his parents- his mother, in particular- he did everything he could to prevent this. That he had been working on their side the whole time.

And then Sirius had to face the bitterest of all truths. That he had not done enough to prevent this: he had gone gallivanting with James when he should have been in hiding, leaving Lily all alone with baby Harry. He had swapped Secret Keeper roles with Peter Pettigrew, treating the whole important Secret Keeper task like a joke- he cringed with regret when he remembered laughing at how no one would guess someone as useless as Peter would be the secret keeper.

He hadn’t even remained with Harry when he had been pulled from the wreckage of his family home. He should have gone with Hagrid- he should have fought harder to have Harry himself; he was his godfather but he had not acted like it that night. That horrific night that he had lost everything.

It made him sick that Snape had died a hero in his godson’s eyes and yet he, Sirius Black, had returned back from the Veil, a drunken disappointment.

He forced himself from the knots of his duvet, finally opening his eyes and confronting the mess he had surrounded himself in last night. The empty bottles, the food he had left uneaten on a plate on the floor, an attempt to soak up the spirits he had drank. He disgusted himself. He sat up straight in his bed, reaching for his wand that had been discarded on the floor next to the slop he had half-eaten. He wiped the end of his wand on a tissue- another thing that had been discarded in his room, the whole room was a dump of discarded things. He charmed the mess away, all of it, the bottles, the food, the plate, the tissues, the broken photo frames, the glass- things he didn’t remember breaking but there it was for him to see in the cold light of day.

He felt marginally better now his room was clear.

And then he shut his eyes again, sadness choking him up at the thought that the slight tidiness of his room could make him feel marginally better- as if anything could make things feel better.

There was a knock at his bedroom door, Harry stepping in with a mug of coffee and a letter that had been posted to him.

“Morning, Sirius.” Harry smiled, a quick survey of his godfather’s clear room made him think that things were better this morning- not like the other mornings, almost every morning since he had come back from the Veil.

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, handing the hot mug to Sirius. He was sat up, shirtless, his tattoos stark across his pale chest. He had lost the sun from his skin long ago. He forced himself to smile, thanking Harry for the coffee. He took a sip, his soreness alleviated by the caffeine. He would still need a Hangover Cure Potion, but he could sort that later on. His eyes lowered to the letter in Harry’s hand, rolling at the recognition of the Ministry’s insignia on the envelope.

“Another invitation to the Ministry’s Tea-Room?” Sirius joked.

“You know they will stop sending you these letters if you would just go to them.” Harry smirked, tapping the duvet with the envelope where his godfather’s knee was located beneath, “I’ll even come with you if you wanted.”

“I’m a big boy, I can get to the Ministry alone.” Sirius tutted, taking another long sip of coffee, draining the mug entirely.

“So you’ll go?” Harry checked, remembering the other letters he had read, the ones that Sirius had ignored, “they just want to talk to you about the Veil-”

“It will be a short visit, seeing as I don’t remember anything about the two years I spent there.” Sirius smirked, seeing the look on Harry’s face and suspecting that Harry didn’t fully believe him.

It was hard to believe. To be somewhere for so long and not remember a drop of detail.

But, sadly, it was true. Even his time in the unknown of the Veil was time spent uselessly. Just like every other prison he had been kept within: Azkaban, Grimmauld Place. He wondered what his next cell would look like. He didn’t want to go to the Interview because it only served as a reminder of how fucking useless he was. How embarrassing it would be for him to sit opposite someone with an important job- a ministry official- whilst he was nothing but his family name, his family wealth. Things he had done all he could to distance himself from in his youth were now the things that kept him housed, fed, financially supported.

“Just get it over with,” Harry spoke, taking a sip of his own coffee and rising from the edge of the bed where he sat, “oh, Molly and Arthur are cooking dinner for us all at the Burrow tonight-”

“I might give that a skip.” Sirius spoke quietly.

“No, come on, Sirius, you’ve skipped enough of these invites!” Harry spoke with annoyance, “Molly will think you’re being rude.”

“I was hardly best friends with Molly before, I can cope with her thinking me rude.” Sirius retorted.

“Well, maybe you should make friends. You don’t cope well with isolation and you are isolating yourself.” Harry said with authority, “you know you’ve been exonerated, you know you don’t need to stay hidden in this house anymore but you haven’t left since you came back. Why, Sirius?”

Sirius had spent many months imagining what he would do once he was no longer trapped within Grimmauld Place, once he was no longer a wanted criminal, wanted for a crime he had never committed. He had imagined stepping outside, meeting Harry with a beaming grin out in the great outdoors. He had imagined stepping out into a pub garden, sitting outside at a table with Remus, with Tonks, with the gang of friends Harry had made at Hogwarts. He imagined Remus in his mind, his cheeky, half-tucked, smile, obscured as if he didn’t want to be caught grinning. He was wearing his usual cardigan-garb, a bit of salt-and-pepper grey in his hair. He was alive. His flesh, his smile, his heart- alive.

It was all imaginary now.

An unmet fantasy.

“I lost so many people, Harry.” Sirius spoke, a crack splintering his throat, his voice, “I feel like I have no one outside for me anymore. So why... go outside.”

Harry was struck by a clamp of shame around his chest. Whilst he had lost people in the war, people very important to him- he still had people that he loved and cherished that had survived. Harry remembered his godfather had with Remus, the friendship that had endured beyond school, beyond the long years of Sirius’ wrongful imprisonment. He remembered the same man who had taught him Defence Against the Dark Arts, one of the first people who tentatively offered him a connection to the parents he had lost as a baby. He was a brave man. His loss was carried by both he and Sirius, but his godfather most of all.

“All the more reason to come to dinner tonight.” Harry offered, with love.

Sirius conceded to the invitation, feeling as if he was thin on lifelines left.

. . .

Sirius had made an effort that morning. An effort that he had not made in so very long. He made an effort to shower, to shave- trim- his beard into a smooth and succinct style. He washed his sweaty body, pale in the light of the shower room. He scrubbed the dank from his body, his hair, until he felt practically baptised in the hot steamy water falling upon him as heavy as hailstone. He dressed himself in clean clothes- smart clothes. He was going to the Ministry after all.

He made his way downstairs, passing portraits of family members long dead on the stairwell. Harry met him in the kitchen, eating a bacon sandwich, pressing a plate across the kitchen table in his direction with the same made for him. His stomach growled, empty, despite the junk he had stuffed himself with the night before to soak up the strong spirits he had drunk.

 He wondered how long his body would hold together before his late night binging- both food and drink- left him with a swollen gut and flab where his muscles currently held on to his frame. His ego balked at the threat to his Adonis looks: self-destruction taking from him what time had been slow to etch away from him.

He opened a cupboard, reaching in for a Hangover-Cure potion, downing it quickly before Harry could see.

He gladly ate the bacon sandwich, making the decision to walk to the Ministry for the exercise.

. . .

It was summer. Late summer. The world was far too bright for Sirius’ eyes, blood-shot despite the slow-acting Hangover-Cure potion absorbing into his blood. It was old, the potion brewed too many years ago to be effective immediately. He resisted the inclination to think of the man who had brewed the potions, unwilling to throw him a bone of gratitude even posthumously. He quietly, subtly, transfigured a broken branch on the pavement into a pair of black sunglasses to dim the glare of the sun.

He felt his pulse quicken as he walked, stepping quickly through the London streets as if he was afraid he would be late for the meeting- as if it held any importance to him whatsoever. It had been so long since he had any reason to be outdoors. A purpose. Even if it was for something as stupid as an interview about his time in the Veil. He passed by the muggles on their way to and from important places on the street, passed the rush of cars and motorbikes on the road. He walked passed the bustle of shops, passed the pulse of people pushing through on their way downward, to the underground trains that circulated the entirety of the city like veins and arteries.

He wondered what it would be like to take a muggle train, but saw no reason to be adventurous when he just needed to get to a phone box outside Great Scotland Yard, on the Victoria Embankment. He continued to walk, despite the ease in which the underground trains would have given to his journey. He walked, needing to clear his head, straighten himself out, get a story together. He wished he had something to bring to the interview, some insight into the mystery of the Veil. But he had nothing- he wasn’t denying anything, he wasn’t lying to Harry when he said he could not remember a thing about this so-called mysterious Veil. It was as unknown to him as anyone else.

All he could remember was the short moments before- his taunting of Bellatrix, the fun he was having, the battle he was finally a part of. The short space in time where things had felt fantastic, electrifying even- his entire body and mind and soul in sync for the first time in so many years of muted misery. He had felt alive again, only to stumble upon his own hubris- his inability to just take a single thing seriously enough, taking risks when the price was too high. How dare he have enjoyed himself when he was fighting to save his godson?

What was wrong with him?

Sirius smirked to himself as he thought this, finally reaching the phone box at Great Scotland Yard, the visitors entrance to the Ministry of Magic. He had no capacity or time, or inclination, to answer that question anytime soon. But he did have time for a cigarette before he dialled the number for access to the Ministry in the phone box.

He leaned against the old phone box, the red paint chipped and discoloured from the years it had stood in the muggle street. He watched people pass him by, his height giving him the sense of a surveyor of those around him. People in suits, people in summer clothes, women in dresses, men in shorts. He appreciated the sight of legs on display, whether smooth and shaven on the women who walked by, or hairy on the men in shorts who jogged passed him. He finished his cigarette, stubbing it out against the red flaking paint of the phone box. He found himself inhaling a deep breath, deeper than he needed, as if he was securing air to breathe for where he was going. Descending to the underground world of the Ministry, a deep-sea dive to a place that had been so instrumental in imprisoning him at Azkaban, and then again, however unintentionally, behind the Veil.

A part of him wished he had Harry with him, that he hadn’t been so quick to insist he could come here alone.

He stepped into the phone box, squeezing his too tall body into the small space, closing the door behind him.

His fingertips pressed against the number pad before him: 62442

A visitors’ badge clunked into the slot where muggle money would land as change after a phone call had ended. He sighed, pinning the badge onto his shirt and feeling the floor beneath him begin to descend, the view of the muggle streets disappearing as he slipped beneath the concrete.

. . .

The world beneath the muggle street was hectic as the ministers and supporting staff rushed around to keep the political side of their world running in the aftermath of a war that had undermined its entire foundation. He walked slowly, a deliberate contrast to the hurried sea he stepped out into of robed officials. He strolled as if he was on a scenic walk, gazing at the statues within the atrium and the portraits that lined the walls. He joined the crowd waiting for the elevator, head and shoulders above the others stood around him, a particularly short crew of ministers. The door opened, a stream of people pushing passed as they exited the elevator, vacating and leaving space for another collection of people to step inside.

The floor he waited to vacate was on Level One, the same level where the Minister for Magic was on. He double-checked the letter he had been sent, the most recent of several, to ensure he was on the correct floor. A welcome desk met him at the end of a short corridor from the elevator. A young man and two women were sat at the desk, working a reception area, answering correspondences that came in on a flurry of owls. He stood before the desk, noting the shocked look on their face and then the quick realisation that he was a wrongly convicted criminal, and not the Dark Wizard he was labelled.

“How can I help you, sir?” the young man asked, standing up at his seat.

Sirius gathered himself, stating that he had an appointment with an Interviewing Minister. He handed the letter to the young man as if providing supporting evidence for his claims.

“Yes, Mr Runcorn is waiting.” The young man spoke, stepping away from his work at the desk, “follow me, I will take you to his office.”

 Sirius did as he was told, wanting to get this over with, the sooner the better. Not that he was eager to rush off to the Burrow for a friendly get together. He would rather rush off to the nearest pub and pickle himself in the first pint of muggle beer he could learn the name of. He would sit indoors, despite the hot summer day, not being able to face a pub garden like the one he had pictured in his daydream.

The man knocked on a large office door, a charm opening the door from the inside. The man nodded at Sirius to say goodbye, turning to return back to his desk, leaving Sirius at the doorframe of a room that didn’t face the sun at this point in the afternoon, leaving the office stuck in the shade. Sirius peered into the dark space, seeing a man sat at a desk, curly dark brown hair, a darker beard. Even sitting down, Sirius could see that Runcorn was a tall man, a similar height to himself. A gravelly voice beckoned him inside, the room lighting up to accommodate Sirius’ vision.

“I prefer to work in the shade, but I am conscious that this is not practical for interviews.” Runcorn commented, as Sirius sat down opposite him.

For a moment, both men sized each other up silently. Sirius had not expected to come into contact with a man like Runcorn- a man who, he had learned from Harry, had been only too eager to hunt down muggle borns during his heyday in the war. He had claimed he had been under the Imperius Curse, he had been demoted to a research roll rather than a managerial role. He had demonstrated a knack for investigation, digging up the family histories of magical society, even if he had been a supposed puppet.

Sirius had always doubted those who claimed the influence of the Imperius Curse were the cause of their poor actions. It was too easy. Too convenient.

“You’re a hard man to drag here.” Runcorn smirked, “I was not expecting you to arrive, despite the scheduling. We have tried to schedule you a meeting for weeks now.”

“Well, I’m here now.” Sirius spoke drolly.

“Yes. But why now, if you don’t mind me asking?” Runcorn rebutted, a little too quickly, a little too sharply.

“Your letters are clogging up my hallway.” Sirius responded, “I thought it best to get this over with.”

Runcorn nodded, slowly, subduing the quick-to-stir anger that resided within himself. Regaining composure, control, he turned back to the topic at hand.

“Thank you for finally coming in, regardless of your motives.” Runcorn began, “I am in charge of the current research into the Department of Mysteries Death Chamber, specifically, what has been colloquially referred to as the ‘Veil’ in which you fell behind two years ago.”

“Bit of a career cul-de-sac,” Sirius tutted, “what are you hoping to achieve with this research?”

“Research is conducted for the sake of research, for the collection and archiving of knowledge, for the sake of knowledge.” Runcorn explained, as if reading from a script.

Sirius could see that this was not the work Runcorn would want to be pursuing, but did it so he kept a job.

“As I was saying, the Veil remains a constant mystery and has alluded understanding and interpretation for as long as there have been people studying it.” Runcorn summarised, “you offer a unique perspective of study, someone who has been wherever it is that the Veil goes, someone who has come back – back to wherever we exist in relation to this Veil.”

Sirius listened to Runcorn’s words with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

“So, as you see,” Runcorn concluded, leaning back in his chair, never taking his eyes of Sirius before him, “absolutely anything you can tell me will be as rare as gold dust. Any drip of information will be investigated for years to come. What a privileged position you find yourself in-”

The scorn on his tone was clear.

“I hate to be the one to stand in the way of research,” Sirius drawled, “I truly do. But I don’t think I can provide any special insights into the Veil. I fell into it. I fell out. Two years passed for everyone else, but not for me. I have no memory of this place.”

Runcorn sat silently for a moment. He had been prepared for this: an outright refusal of information, a withholding of detail.

“I find that hard to believe.” Runcorn announced.

“Believe what you want. It’s the truth.” Sirius sniggered, leaning back, finding himself amused by the disappointment he could conjure up in Runcorn.

“Have you even tried to remember?” Runcorn asked.

“People don’t tend to need to try to remember things, if they are memories.” Sirius almost laughed.

“There are ways we can ... help to try harder to remember.” Runcorn suggested, “Truth Serum, mind-reading.”

“Why is it so important for you to know about this Veil?” Sirius argued, the hairs on the back of his neck lifting, sensing danger at the suggestion of Veritaserum or Legilimency.

“This is my work.” Runcorn expanded, as if explaining to a simpleton.

Sirius hated the man from that moment on. He hated the tone in his voice, he hated the threats he subconsciously delivered.

“Well, your work is a dead-end. A pointless, fruitless, pottering about in an office you have been dumped within because the Ministry evidently doubts your claims of the Imperius Curse being used on you during the war, but don’t want to admit to the sheer scale of collaboration within the Ministry.” Sirius reeled off, “I do not remember anything about the Veil. So I suppose I am as useless as you are. Even more useless- I don’t have an office.”

Runcorn sniffed, inhaling a breath and controlling his laughter in one action. He saw Sirius Black for what he was: a man so stunted by his imprisonment, his time in hiding, his time tucked away behind the mysterious Veil. He had a lot of things, Sirius Black: unending wealth, the pure-blood privilege of his family name. But use was not one of those things- at least on the surface.  

“You feel useless, Black, regarding your absence from the war. The Veil is a reminder of this sense of uselessness.” Runcorn ruminated, “a psychiatrist may argue that you do not want to remember your time in the Veil because it is a symbol of this sense of uselessness.”

A thought occurred to him. A way of linking two of things that hung heavy around his neck: one, a professional matter, the Veil; the second, was personal. He had been continuously sending messages to Sirius Black for both of these reasons. Sirius Black was connected to both- his time at the Veil and his time at Hogwarts with this other individual who remained a threat to his free life post-war.

“Perhaps you need to feel useful, have purpose, before you are able to try to remember your time in the Veil?” Runcorn continued, setting the stage for his true intentions, his true reasons for contacting Sirius Black as soon as he was aware of his return- after the war had ended.

Sirius lifted his eyebrow, sensing an undercurrent to Runcorn’s words.

“You have accused me of lying about being put under the Imperius Curse,” Runcorn smirked, “an easy jab to make in the heat of the moment. I am wondering, if given time, space, focus, I am wondering how good you truly are at sniffing out real Death Eaters.”

Sirius waited for more.

“After the Battle of Hogwarts, Snape’s body was not recovered. Not by the Order, and, as learned through interviews with leading Death Eater figures now imprisoned, neither did the Death Eaters. There have been whispers, suggestions, that Snape survived the war and remains uncharged for his crimes.”

Sirius felt his chest rush at the intrusion of Snape’s name into this room. It was unexpected, it was unwelcome. It dragged his thoughts away from the topic of the Veil, an all-encompassing distraction – Snape was a hero to Harry, the anger inside him at this was unparalleled.

“Harry told me that Snape was on our side.” Sirius spoke, testing the waters of the validity of what he had been told, how this was taken by people with political power.

“Yes, he did say that.” Runcorn confirmed, “however, the law is not dictated by war traumatised young men and their word. Even if they are the Boy Who Lived.”

Runcorn saw the flash of anger across Sirius’ face, sensing he needed to back off from saying anything about Potter- remembering the family connection between the two.

“Harry has based his word on what he has seen through pensive memories. These memories have not been located after the Battle. No one else witnessed these memories. Additionally, the only witness to Snape’s so-called spy work was Albus Dumbledore- a man killed by Snape. His Headmaster portrait has gone missing, presumed destroyed in the Battle, so we have no one to corroborate Harry’s claims of Snape’s innocence.”

Sirius considered Runcorn’s words, finding himself willing to tilt to his side of the argument.

“But you never thought he was truly on your side, in the Order, did you?” Runcorn spoke, “the bad-blood between the two of you is known.”

“Why do you want me to fetch Snape for you?” Sirius asked, “you could get anyone in the Ministry to do this.”

“You provide the element of surprise.” Runcorn explained, “perhaps you are unaware of this, but your return from the Veil- and, indeed, your return to life itself has been kept out of the press. This was a deliberate act to be lifted after your interview with me. But, I see no reason we can’t respect your privacy and keep your business- and your name- out of the papers.”

“So Snape, if he is alive, believes that I am dead.” Sirius understood.

Runcorn nodded.

Sirius felt a surge of life spring in him, an electric buzz of purpose coursing through him once again. He sniffed the air, dog like, as if attempting to seek out the scent of his prey.

It was like being back at school, he recognised. His focus drilling down onto Snape- the sensation he drew from him, the anger and the violence that he inspired. He had felt powerful, targeting Snape at school- he could not deny that. He had felt powerful fighting someone who fought back- fought back hard.

He already knew he would agree to this task. He already knew he wanted to bring Snape in, prove to Harry that he was not the hero he thought he was. Prove that he had power still. What else did he have to do? Sirius thought darkly, apart from sit around Grimmauld Place collecting empty bottles of wine.

He had a chance to show Harry that he was a hero.

Runcorn pushed back in his seat to reach into a chest of drawers by his desk. He pulled out a paper package, handing it to Sirius.

“I put this together, in the hopes that you would finally turn up for an Interview.” Runcorn coughed, “a short document on Snape- unnecessary, perhaps. But also, you will see a small handheld mirror. It is a two-way mirror- if you do agree to this task I will require you to keep in contact. Provide daily updates, unless arranged otherwise. Nothing too strenuous.”

Sirius flicked through the paper, finding his eyes lingering on the unmoving photo of Snape that appeared to be in black and white. Sirius realised, seeing colour in the background of the photograph, that Severus was just that pale and his hair, eyes and clothes were just that black.

“Take some time to think about it. Rearrange your diary. See if you have time for a task that may take a few weeks to complete.” Runcorn spoke, attempting to sound casual, but desperate for Sirius Black to agree to the task.

Sirius nodded, sensing the Interview was over. He stood up from the desk, holding onto the paper package. He was about to turn and leave when he had a thought.

“I take it you want me to bring him in alive. Right?” Sirius checked, he may have vehemently hated Snape, but he was not a killer.

He had come close to killing Snape before, in their days at Hogwarts; he had not meant it to happen- as stupid as that sounded. He did not intend for Snape to walk into danger on his word, of all things. He had not intended to risk Remus’ life.

He would not be put in that place again.

Runcorn did not answer straight away.

“He is to be charged, Black.” Runcorn repeated, “we cannot charge a dead man.”

. . .

Harry greeted him at the Burrow, a beaming smile on his face that Sirius had actually turned up. He pulled his godfather into an embrace, locking him in a hug with his arm around his shoulder.

“I told you I would turn up.” Sirius chided.

“Telling and doing are two different things.” Harry smirked, “come on, everyone’s outdoors in the garden seeing as it’s such a nice day.”

He was glad to be outdoors, glad for the space to smoke. Glad to have something else to focus on, if not the people at the long table Molly and Arthur had pulled outside for the get-together. He saw the shock on everyone’s face, that he had actually appeared; Bill and Fleur Weasley sat together, Fleur’s hands were placed on her stomach, delicately, protectively, suggesting to Sirius that she was pregnant. George was sat with a girl he had not met before, sat close together- more than friends, Sirius assessed. Ron was there, with Hermione. Ginny was sat down with Luna on one side, an empty chair where Harry was clearly sat before he had gone to answer the knock at the door.

Sirius sighed heavily, sitting down with submerged reluctance at the table; he suddenly felt very single, surrounded by all these couples. He felt very old, surrounded by all this youth.

Meeting Molly’s smile across the table, he sensed this was going to be a trying evening.

. . .

“That wasn’t too bad was it, Sirius?” Harry asked, as they stepped through the fireplace of Grimmauld Place, having travelled home by Floo.

Sirius shrugged, grunting noncommittally. He had appreciated the distraction, the opportunity for good food. It had only served to make him feel more alone though, to be surrounded by people so connected. He was not a part of their world. He had died- in their eyes, they had grieved him- their lives had moved on. He couldn’t fault them for that.

They were young. They had their lives ahead of them.

He was currently directionless, the only source of a compass within himself was the task of catching Snape.

Sirius followed Harry to the kitchen, sitting down at the table. It was at this time he would have one drink. Then another. But he sensed he had to get his head into gear if he was going to actually successfully complete his task set by Runcorn.

“Do you want a cuppa?” Harry asked, tentative, surprised that he had not automatically reached for a glass, a bottle, from the kitchen shelf.

He hated his godfather’s drinking, but was powerless to stop it. Reluctant to admit to himself, or Sirius, or anyone for that matter, that his drinking was a problem.

Sirius nodded, his mouth parched.

Harry boiled the kettle, poured the hot water into mugs and carried over the black tea to the table where Sirius sat. He summoned a glass pint bottle of milk from the fridge and placed it beside the mugs. Sirius poured the milk into his mug, watching the black water turn pale gold. Harry did the same, adding a spoonful of sugar to his tea.

“So, you didn’t mention how the interview at the Ministry went.” Harry began, suspecting that the omission meant that Sirius had not turned up.

“It was... interesting.” Sirius confessed.

This piqued Harry’s curiosity.

“I didn’t have anything to offer relating to the Veil.” Sirius reminded him, “but the Interviewer has asked me to do something else.”

“What have you been asked to do?” Harry asked, concern knitting his brows together as he stared at Sirius.

“Hunt down Snape.” Sirius announced, seeing no need to sugarcoat anything.

He saw Harry’s concern turn to confusion.

“No one claimed his body, Harry.” Sirius explained, “ergo, Runcorn thinks he is alive-”

“Runcorn?!” Harry interrupted, about to remind Sirius about the man’s behaviour in the war but was further interrupted by Sirius continuing.

“And he wants me, a man who Snape thinks is dead and wouldn’t suspect is hunting him, to catch him.” Sirius concluded.

Harry simmered in his seat, an obvious anger etched on his face. He pushed his tea away from him.

“An odd choice of words there, Sirius: Hunting.” Harry spoke, “what do you plan on doing once you catch him? If he is alive. Because, I remember how you treated him at school- I saw it. I remember how you treated him when you escaped Azkaban and found your way at the Shack. When he was unconscious. You have a shit record of treating him with dignity.”

“He is not the hero you think he is, Harry.” Sirius spat, “and no, I am not going to harm your favourite teacher. If he’s so innocent, he can stand trial like the rest of the Death Eaters.”

“What, like Runcorn?” Harry laughed.

“He was cleared.” Sirius spoke, evasively.

“He claims he was under the Imperius Curse.” Harry reminded, “I was him, for an hour or so, when I took Polyjuice potion to infiltrate the Ministry. I saw the way people acted around him, the way people were so afraid to say or do the wrong thing around him. Does that sound like Imperio?”

Sirius could see this was going nowhere.

“If Snape is alive, and that’s doubtful, considering the injuries you said he sustained, if he is alive I will bring him back in one piece. I have been given a job- a purpose. I have the right set of skills to do this job. Please just let me have this.” Sirius asked, “if Snape truly is innocent, I’d be bringing him back to clear his name. If he is guilty, he will be charged. The truth will finally be known.”

Harry had no arguments there.

He had very little left to say. He had seen the memories Snape had given him, the final pieces of a puzzle he needed to win the war. He had seen the sacrifice, the repentance, the misery of this man’s life. He had empathised with Snape, had seen the friendship he had with his mother, the love he had for his mother, a love he saw akin to the love he had for Hermione, or Luna, or Ron. He had seen the burden he had carried, the heavy toll of his work as a spy. He had grieved him, privately. If Snape was alive, he did not fault him for wanting to stay away, to finally have peace.

He was angry at his godfather for threatening this peace- if he was alive. He was angry at his godfather for having the same air about him, as a dog catching the scent of a hare on the wind. Dog hunting prey. He hated the implication that Sirius was acting on the request of a man like Runcorn. He sensed that Sirius’ bitterness and childish hate of Snape was clouding his view of what an unreliable and dark character Runcorn was- Imperius Curse or not.

“You don’t need my permission to do anything, Sirius.” Harry spoke, detached, avoiding eye contact, “but if you do decide to go find Snape, make sure you do it for the right reasons. Reasons you can live with.”

Sirius stood up from the table, making his way upstairs to his room.

He closed the door behind him. He grabbed a backpack from his wardrobe, stuffing a few changes of clothes into the bag. He made plans to go to Diagon Alley in the morning, to put together a first aid kit for his task- couldn’t hurt to have a healing potion or two. He made plans to take out some money, exchange some for muggle money. Who knew where this mission would take him?

He stepped to his bed, picking up the package Runcorn had handed him earlier that day. He pulled out the two-way mirror and called for Runcorn, confirming officially that he would take the job. After the short exchange, he tucked the mirror back into the package to keep it in one piece. He placed the package on top of the backpack, pulling out the document to read through, laying back on his bed.

He flicked through the short biography, noticing a lot of missing information. He knew from Harry that Snape had grown up in the same area as Lilly: Cokeworth. He smirked to himself, feeling that he had an upper-hand over Runcorn on the basis that he had more information to work with.

His eyes landed on the starkness of the photo of Snape. His eyes lingering on the dark hair, hair that he remembered tormenting the man about; his hooked nose, another thing he had tormented the man for. There was very little he had not tormented Snape for as a teenager. His eyes traced the contours of his cheeks, the gauntness of his form. He looked into the depths of his black eyes and felt something stir within him; a hunger, a familiar sensation he had shut down in his youth. Channelling the hunger into aggression, as if it could be converted into something else.

He looked away from Snape, away from those black eyes. He shoved the document back into the package, tucking it into the backpack, zipping up the bag as if he could lock the hunger away.

The night felt so much longer, when he wasn’t drinking.

. . . .

Runcorn placed the two-way mirror down on his office desk. He didn’t smile, although the situation certainly called for it. He had... another minion. Another person to do the dirty work of seeking Snape out from whatever hole he had burrowed into since the end of the war, to bring him to him, so he could dispose of him once and for all. He thought of the Death Eaters he already had on side- the individuals he offered protection to as long as they captured Snape.

Snape knew too much about him to be left to live.

He had two teams hunting him down now: Sirius Black, a one-man army; and McNair and whoever stooge had working with him.

Runcorn had tried so hard to cover his tracks. He had managed to destroy the pensive memories that Harry had said contained the memories Snape had left behind- pure evidence of his true affiliations with the Order. He had found the portrait of Headmaster Dumbledore in the wreckage of the castle after the Battle- having the sense to shrink the portrait and tuck it away in his pocket once he had heard whispers of Snape’s loyalty to the Order. He could not have the man appear to be a credible witness. He could not have Snape’s word be believed- and he would reveal all of his time within the Death Eater circles as a spy. He would speak of against Runcorn’s defence, his claim of being under the Imperius Curse during the war- and therefore not responsible for his actions.

Snape would risk his name, his reputation, his career, his freedom.

He needed to be dealt with.

His eyes looked to the corner of his office, where a rectangular framed portrait stood facing the wall, covered with a dusty sheet for good measure. He wondered if he should destroy the portrait. Whether he should eliminate its existence once and for all- eliminate the potential. But he was not a killer, and it felt too close to murder to burn the portrait of the Headmaster.

Sometimes, he heard the portrait cough when he worked into the dead of night.

. . .

Chapter Text

Severus Snape could hardly tell when he was awake, or where the thin line existed between consciousness and unconsciousness. He laid down on his threadbare sofa in the living room of his home in Spinners End, eyes wide open, unfixed on the nothingness around him, and he wouldn’t even know he was awake. It was only when his eyes were closed that he would realise he had been awake, if just for a moment.

He took great effort to reduce his movements in the wake of the agonising injuries he had endured by Nagini. Some days, even the flicker of his eyelids were too strenuous, too painful.

Hours passed into days, days passed into weeks.

It had been like this ever since he had escaped the Shack, after having his throat ripped open by that fucking snake.

He had been prepared for the blood loss, he had been prepared for the poisoning he would experience.

But he had not accounted for the sheer unending weakness that would follow him.

He had prepared well enough to survive the inevitable attack he saw on the horizon for him ever since Arthur Weasley had been struck by the snake at the Ministry. He had produced a potion he could take on a daily basis, a small sip, building up an immunity to the venom that had almost killed Arthur.

The potion had been sickening to him to begin with; producing an almost toxic build up within him until eventually his body cooperated and began to build the blocks of protection within him against the debilitating poison. He had taken blood replenishers in preparation for the inevitable attack. He took these blood replenishers on such a high dosage that, by the eve of the actual attack, it was necessary for him to leech his body, to release some of the blood that overwhelmed his circulation.

It had been enough to prevent him from death when he did eventually experience the assassinating attack by Nagini. It had been just about enough to pull him through.

His heart had stopped, his breathing had slowed.

At one point, he was convinced he would die, that he had failed in his mission. He had passed on his memories to Potter as an unexpected failsafe- as hard as it had been to share his life with Potter, it was a necessary discomfort if it meant the war would end in peace.

When his life signs had stalled so finally, when the light of life had left his eyes, Potter and his friends had left the Shack, believing he was dead. Taking his memories with them to view.

To understand what was needed from Potter.

The moment he had been left alone in the Shack had been so quiet, so still.

As if he was the last man left on earth.

It had been a small moment of peace before the pain of rebirth shocked him back to reality.

Until the wet, rasp of his breath became strong enough to hear again.

Until the paralysing impact of Nagini’s venom was subdued, supressed, by the potion he had created and diligently taken for years in preparation for such an attack.

Until he could crawl, until he could summon energy within himself to launch his corpse like body towards his wand, scattered across the splintered floor of the Shrieking Shack.

He remembered recognising the cursed nature of this Shack upon his life.

This had been the same wretched building where Sirius Black had sent him to die as a teenager. The repulsive thought of dying in this place had been like rocket fuel for his desire to leave the Shack.

He hadn’t died the first time he had been attacked in this place.

He would not die there then.

He could die anywhere else, but not the Shack.

Eventually, time passed and he had heard the echoes of celebration reverberate through Hogsmede up to where he lay, sticky with his own blood. By the tone of the cheers, he was relieved to learn that the war had ended in the Order’s favour.

On that knowledge, he had forced his muscles to move through the numbness that lingered through Nagini’s attack upon him, grabbing his wand and channelling every single shred of focus and fight left within him to disapparate away from the Shack, away- he was done.

He had nothing else to give.

He had done what he had set out to do and now it was time to leave.

They had prepared an escape plan for him- both Severus and Dumbledore, together.

When Dumbledore had been alive, and then once again when he had been a talking portrait in the Headmaster’s office. They had gone through the plan in detail, with a fine-toothed comb. It had started off so wistful, almost as a joke. A lighter, palette cleansing, topic to discuss after the harrows of war.

But the fantasy had turned to concrete, as the scaffolding of rich detail began to build around a framework of dreams.

Dumbledore had caught a far-off hope within him, a desire to finally live a life. A life unchained from servitude, from either Dumbledore, or Voldemort. Dumbledore, aware of the magnitude of what he had asked from Severus had even sought out the connection, made the request for safe passage, on his behalf. As if it was the least he could do.

Dumbledore had called an old friend: the Ferryman.

He had created very convincing, but false, forms of identification for Severus- in the expectation that the steps they would take in the war would lead him to need to take on a new name, a new identity, once it had been won.

Dumbledore had always been so full of hope, even when the cursed ring had given him a death sentence.

He had always hoped the war would be won.

He had channelled his secret desires for a quiet life into Severus’ post-war life. Severus had let it happen, despite the lack of self-awareness in Dumbledore’s involvement in these plans: orchestrating the steps required to escape successfully, as diligently as he had controlled Severus’ spy life in the Order.

But, as he lay down on the sofa in Spinners End, his world horizontal in his exhausted position, he was grateful for all the work Dumbledore had invested in ensuring he had the stepping stones to freedom thought out in advance, for him. He certainly did not have the energy to both survive and think of a plan. He was grateful for the final kindness he had been given, even if he felt he did not deserve it.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he had landed with a buckling thud on the floor of his living room. He had pushed himself up from the floorboards, the stickiness of the still weeping blood from his skin ripping like Velcro from the wooden floors. He had splinched his arm, the side of his torso. He had summoned more healing potions from somewhere else in the house, anything to alleviate the added injuries to his already broken body. He had been sick, hurling up the potions alone when nothing else existed within his stomach. He had summoned another healing potion, sipping it much slower that time.

His body had demanded rest. He had forced his way to the sofa, laying down.

He wasn’t sure how long he had slept.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been at Spinners End.

Hours became days became weeks.

But he couldn’t stay here much longer- it was a miracle that he had not been discovered by either the Ministry or the Death Eaters he had betrayed. It was not wise to stay in one place as long as he had done so already.

But, more pressingly, he could not stay in Spinners End because in a couple of days’ time, Spinners End would cease to exist.

It was being demolished- part of the muggle council’s rejuvenation project of Cokeworth.

The slums of Spinners End would be a thing of the past.

The first letter notifying Severus of this demolition had been sent three years ago. He had not cared much at the time. Let the letter fall to the kitchen counter top when he returned over the summer holidays from Hogwarts. He became slightly more concerned as the months and years drew by, and was now down-right stressed: he had a matter of days to summon up enough energy to leave this house for good and make his way to Liverpool Docks.

He would close his eyes in the light of day and open them in the blackness of night.

Aches would stir him; the ruckus of increasingly louder demolition work outside on the eradicating streets of Spinners End caused his entire body to grimace before finally passing out into the black of his mind again. The destruction was coming closer, incrementing on his uncertain place of rest.

He was frustrated by the dislocation of time from his existence since he had landed in Spinners End.

He tried to move on occasion. He forced his body to move enough to fill the tin tub he had bathed in as a child, a relic of the poverty he had alleviated with the magically constructed bathroom- a shame, that this bathroom was on the top floor and out of reach from him. He was too weak to climb the staircase. Too exhausted to attempt another apparation at that point. He summoned the tin tub from the basement, glad that he had kept the thing. He filled it with scalding hot water and forced his fingers to disrobe his body, unravelling the bandaging around his neck, arm and torso.

He felt sick at the sight of the wounds on his arm from the splinching. He was sick at the exposure of his wounds, his body. His body was a weak and pathetic thing right then. He didn’t feel real. He had not seen his reflection so far, he was sure he looked as dreadful as he felt.

But he felt that he needed to bathe before he finally did flee from Spinners End.

Sinking his body into the water, his skin and wounds screamed in protest at the heat, eventually silenced by the soothing of his shivering muscles. He forced himself to stay awake, to clean his disgusting body, clear the wounds, protect himself against an infection that would leave his weakened body behind in Spinners End as a rotting corpse if he wasn’t careful.

He had survived an abusive, starving, childhood in this house. His mother had died here, his father had abandoned him here.

He was certainly not going to die here either.

. . .

He would die in Drobhna.

That was the place he and Dumbledore had decided upon when they had planned his escape, during the darkest moments of the war.

He had seen the small island on a map in Dumbledore’s office, his eyes had lingered on the dot far north of Northern Ireland. It was partially inhabited by a small magical community- small enough that he may never need to see another human face again.

Dumbledore had made contact with a very old friend, known only to Severus as the Ferryman. He resided in Lorne, Northern Ireland, the landlord of a pub, coincidentally called The Ferryman. The repetitive details of the plan was appreciated by Severus at that point, sat in a tub in Spinners End, as he had little capacity for complexity right then.

It had been decided, a year or so back, that Severus would apparrate to Spinners End in the event of the end of the war; collect a pre-packed holdall with his fake identity details, money, clothes, and any small things he might want to keep from what would become his old life. If anything.

He would then make his way to Liverpool Docks to travel by boat- muggle style- to Lorne in Northern Ireland where Severus would then take a second boat- a magical boat this time, for the final leg of his journey to Drobhna. Lorne was a known Portboat town for the magical world, a marina for the ferries and boats that would carry passengers further afield than a standard portkey would allow. It was also a much less regulated method of transport compared to portkeys, which were exclusively created and regulated by the Ministry- an institution Severus wanted very much to avoid at the end of the war.

And from Lorne, the Ferryman would transport him in secret to Drobhna, where a small cottage waited, locked and shielded by a protective charm only he could lift.

That was the plan.

He just was not sure he had the energy to act upon it.

. . .

A crashing sound reverberated from the outdoors, in the enclosing distance. The sound of terraced shack houses collapsing like crushed accordions, a few roads away but louder every day: closer.

He had to leave.

Leave now, or he would be crushed beneath the weight of his dying childhood house.

He was not going to die here.

He lifted himself from the tin tub, steam lifting from his wet body as he lifted himself, one scrawny, hairy, leg at a time over the rim of the tub. He sunk to the floor, where he had placed a towel ready to catch him, it was large enough to envelope himself with, to stop the shaking of his shivering body post-bath. He stretched a hand out, reaching for yet another healing potion to replenish the depleting stock of energy within him. He felt the pitter-patter of his heart thumping behind his chest, his body so emaciated that he feared the skin around his chest was not a thick enough membrane to hold his heart inside.

He felt the dampness from his hair slide down his back, beneath the towel wrapped around him. He reached for his wand, summoning the holdall that had been pre-packed months before from upstairs in his bedroom. He summoned a change of clothing for him to put on once he was dried. His black eyes landed on the black boots stood by the front door, waiting to be put on.

He summoned a cereal bar from the kitchen, the house was slowly running out of small snacks he could consume without nausea. Another reason to leave.

The reasons stacked up within him.

Finishing the cereal bar, the rush of sugar making him giddy- he got dressed. As it was not possible for him to apparate to Liverpool Docks- not whilst he was so weak- he would need to travel as a muggle. He would need to look like a muggle. He wore dark trousers, his belt notched tighter than the last time he had worn these clothes. He wore a shirt, a jumper and a dark coat with a hood. He knew it was summer- he was not so entirely confused on time that he was unaware of the season, but his body found it hard to retain heat. Layers helped.

He stood up. He bent down to pick up the holdall on the floor with what he was carrying with him to his new life- he put it back down so he could place a Weight-Reduction charm on the bag, making it easier for him to carry.

He took one step, convincing himself that he had the strength within him to finally leave, to finally put the plan to purpose. The days of dreaming had come to pass, those moments in Dumbledore’s office felt so far behind him.

Now he needed to leave everything else behind.

He stepped into his boots. Unlocked his front door and winced at the glare of the sun on his face. He gazed out at the world before him: destruction of slum housing that had offered sanctuary to his fellow poverty-stricken neighbours, long ago departed. He smelled the destruction, the dust lining his lungs and causing a hacking cough to splutter from him.

In about two days’ time, he estimated, by the encroaching destruction, his house would be gone.

He would not be sticking around to say goodbye as the wrecking ball came striking down.

. . .

Due to the demolition that was occurring through the slums of Spinners End, Severus had to walk a lot further through the deserted terraced streets to get to the nearest muggle bus stop that would take him to the train station in Cokeworth town centre. There was little chance he would be able to walk the entire way, not when he was quickly depleting of energy just by walking down the street to the bus stop.

As he finally sat down on the brick wall beside the bus stop stand, he felt his chest heaving from the effort it had taken to walk. He felt beads of sweat drop down his spine, he removed his coat, removing his jumper, shoving it into the charmed expansive holdall he had dropped beside him against the dusty brick wall. He put his coat back on, thinking it important to be able to pull his hood on for coverage when required.

He knew the bus time table off by heart, the busses were either on time or they were ten minutes late. Either way, he had the time for a cigarette whilst he waited for the bus. Inhaling the first intake of nicotine helped to regulate his breathing, in a macabre way. He felt his heart smashing against the inside of his chest still, surges of anxiety had struck him the moment he had left his home for good. Although no one would know it by looking at him- his face remained stoic, his body language closed. The anxiety smashed against his chest in the thump of his heart. The dizzying rush of thoughts that screamed through his head now he was finally fulfilling his escape plan.

How could he think he could manage getting to Drobhna if he was struggling to get to the bus stop? What if he couldn’t get a boat from Liverpool docks to Lorne? What if he was captured- now he was outside his home he felt like open sport for whatever Death Eater or Auror that suspected he was alive. He did his best to still these rushing thoughts, a burst pipe of activity that threatened to make him inactive, frozen. He reminded himself of the steps in his plan- they were steps for a reason, it could not be achieved in one move. The steps made this plan manageable. If necessary, he could break the steps down even further: smoke his cigarette, get on the bus, get to the train station, buy a ticket to Liverpool. That was the first part of his plan- in bitesized chunks.

He stubbed out his cigarette as the bus came into view, pulling to a stop before him.

The doors opened and he stepped on.

Sitting down by a window, the bus half empty, he felt a sadness spill inside him: his home would cease to exist in the next few days. As miserable as his childhood had been, it had existed in that home. He lifted his dark eyes, squinting from the sunlight glaring through the window. He saw the demolition crew of trucks and rollers, wrecking balls and excavators.

A part of him was being erased, eradicated. Demolished.

It was one less part of him to run away.

. . .

He remembered standing in this train station with Lilly. For years, he had travelled with Lilly and her family to get to Hogwarts. His mother had accompanied him the first time, never again, dying in his second year. It had never been a busy station. It had one coffee stand, a stand that sold confectionary and cigarettes, magazines and newspapers. He remembered Lilly giggling at the brazenness of the pornography on show on the top shelves of the magazine rack behind the counter of the stall, bursting into laughter when the local pervert turned up to make a purchase. He had never known the appeal of half-naked women, had always felt these pictures were objectifying, even before he knew what the word meant.

A smirk crossed his face as he purchased his ticket to Liverpool; the local pervert was still turning up to buy his magazines, aged since he had last seen him but still driven to get his dirty magazines.

. . .

He had purchased a coffee with the change he had been given from his one way ticket to Liverpool. It scalded his mouth when he sipped it the first time. He sat in a window seat, watching the world pass by between stations. He revelled in the erasure of buildings, the grey of the town he had left behind for ever. He watched the greenery of the fields, the scattering white dots of sheep, that he zoomed passed on the train.

His fingertips grew numb. A shooting seizure of weakness struck him. He forced his arms to cooperate, to reach across to the empty seat beside him where he had placed his holdall. He unzipped the bag, rummaging through the pockets for a pre-prepared wiggenweld potion to knock back and settle the weakness inside him. He wondered if this affliction would ever lift, would ever alleviate. Or whether he would be constantly defending himself against pot-holes in his internal energy reserves. He rested his head against the cool window, his half-lidded eyes watching the fields and sheep go by.

A ticket inspector walked down the carriage, asking to see his ticket, using a blue pen to signature the card as she passed.

. . .

Severus found himself sat in a cafe in Liverpool, his body on autopilot. His body was so starved by this point that he had walked in on instinct only, ordering something to eat and sitting down by another window. A waitress handed him a plate of food, hot and greasy and calorific. He held the silver fork in his hand and tried to remember the last time he had held such a tool between his fingers- silver prongs pricking into the fry-up he had uncharacteristically requested. As he ate a piece of bacon, he tried to remember the last time he ate- ate anything, beyond crumbling cereal bars. Had it really been more than a year? His skeletal body was testament to that.

He had never felt so out of control before, eating fried meat, eggs and bread, his body screaming and demanding the energy within the food like his life depended on it, as if every cell in his body needed the spark of energy to take the next steps in his plan.

But his needy body did not have the foresight to get to the next steps in the plan- the need for such rich sustenance was not thought through well enough. He paid for the food, the second coffee, he stepped outside the cafe and felt such a revolting, crippling wave of sickness that he rushed to the alleyway beside the cafe, chucking everything he had consumed up onto the floor.

He felt his throat hurting, tearing, a wound from the inside that almost scratched the wounds he carried on the outside of his throat. He held a hand to his throat, protectively, heaving, gagging, his body reacting so violently to all that he needed but could not absorb.

He wondered what would happen to his body when he did eventually fall to the concrete ground.

The world fell to black as he passed out.

. . .

The next time he opened his eyes, he was laying in a hospital bed.

The bright artificial lights of the ward numbed his eyes, causing him to lift his hand to shield his vision. He felt a tug on the back of his hand- a series of tubes attached to him, attached to a drip beside his white bed. He had no recollection of getting here. He had no recollection, beyond the knowledge that he had eaten something too substantial for his emaciated form, his swollen stomach inverting itself back into two-dimensions again as he had heaved up the fried food.

A nurse walked in front of him.

“Afternoon, Mr Prince.” The nurse called, her voice a friendly bell on the ward.

It took Severus a few seconds to realise that the nurse was speaking to him- had known his fake name, had seen his fake identity papers. His eyes shot to the seat beside his bed- his holdall bag was still there. His panic slackened, knowing he still had everything he needed with him. The plan was still possible- if slightly side-tracked.

“Well, I don’t know what on earth has happened to you, Mr Prince,” the muggle nurse tutted, flicking through the charts by his bed, “but it doesn’t appear to be anything that a series of good meals, a series of good night rests, can sort out. We will be keeping you in over night for observation, and hopefully in the morning, you will be free to go.”

Severus said nothing, could say nothing- his throat was raw and rough within him. He lifted his arm from his side, placing it limply on his own abdomen, the bedsheets rough against the side of his hand, defensively. The tubes that were attached to his hand tugged slightly, causing him to involuntarily wince and turn to look at the drip with a smarting glare.

“You need the drip for the electrolytes,” the nurse informed, “you are incredibly dehydrated and malnourished, I haven’t seen a man look like you since the war, when my granddad came home from a war camp.”

Severus did not like to be compared to a prisoner of war, he did not want to think of the war he had just about managed to escape, to endure. He was not a prisoner. He would not become one- as if that would be allowed to happen to him, Severus found himself correcting his thoughts: he would be killed immediately if he was captured. That much was clear to him.  

“What happened to your neck?” The nurse asked, pointing at her own neck as if Severus was not able to understand her.

A flash of snake teeth, sharp and pointed, filled his mind.

He shook his head, unwilling to remember, doing all he could to forget that moment.

To forget it all- it was within the realm of his old life, the life he was abandoning.

 “The injury is an odd one.” The nurse continued, “It looks like it is both healing and unhealing at the same time. It doesn’t look recent, but it still bleeds. We changed the bandaging for you and took samples of your blood to determine if there is any blood-clotting conditions making it hard for this wound to heal.”

The nurse waited for a response, and when she didn’t receive one she remembered the main reason for her check-up on this patient during her rounds.

“You also hit your head when you fainted,” the nurse pointed to her own head, demonstrating where the vivid purple bruises were on Severus’ own face and head, “I need to check you still have your wits on you after a head injury...”

Severus listened as the nurse asked a series of questions, some he could not answer- he honestly did not know who the muggle prime minister was. The nurse seemed happy enough with the answers he had provided, joking that she would rather not know the name of the recent prime minister after the cuts he had made to the health budget when his party got into power. She was mostly just relieved he had a voice on him. Severus could only stare, holding back the emotions that threatened to appear on his face, threatened to leap from him- he could only think of the political situation he had fought to destroy from the inside. He smoothed his thoughts down, as if ironing out the creases in clothes, his feelings pressed down in his mind until the hot metal of the iron made them indistinguishable, extinguished in a cloud of screaming steam.

The nurse completed her checks and left him to rest, closing the curtains around his bed, there to give patients the impression of privacy on the crowded hospital ward. He looked at a digital clock that could be seen on the wall, peeking over the top of the curtains. The red lines of light glowed in the dimly lit ward.

It was evening.

He had arrived in Liverpool at ten in the morning.

It was disorientating to find himself awake after so many hours had passed.

He was unsure what to do, whether it would be an option to catch a ferry at this hour. The risk of having nowhere to stay that night if the ferry was not available was not worth it in his condition.

At least he had a bed for the night if he stayed where he was.                                                  

. . .

Sirius woke up early- and by early, he woke up when Harry was getting up. He wondered why his godson was such an early riser, learning that he was going on a trip with Ginny before she returned to finish her final year at Hogwarts in September.

“I’ll be back in about a week,” Harry reminded him, having told him this information more than once.

Harry had to tell him things over and over sometimes, the drinking erased some of his words from Sirius’ memories the next day.

“Right. Well, I’m going to get started with this task Runcorn set.” Sirius announced, not meeting Harry’s eye.

Harry said nothing for a moment.

He washed up his empty mug and plate at the sink. He was annoyed, hurt, that his godfather was leaving so soon after returning from the Veil- to hunt down Snape, of all things. Sirius had not gotten up early to have breakfast with him before, had not drunk himself stupid in the night for him.

But for the target of his schoolboy bullying, he did these things.

It was ... insightful, Harry felt, that catching and bringing harm to Snape- if he was even alive- was a driving motive for his godfather to get up in the morning.

“Harry,” Sirius spoke when the younger man did not respond to him. He was not sure how to approach, how to fix this, “I... enjoy your holiday. With Ginny.”

Harry dried his hands and turned away from the sink, his green eyes fixed on anything but the godfather he felt disappointment towards.

“Harry. Don’t leave it like this between us.” Sirius begged, “I want to find him. I’m going to. If he lives, why should he get away with the things he has done-?”

“Do you just not believe me, Sirius? Do you think I’m lying when I say I saw his memories, that I know he was a spy for the Order? That he killed Dumbledore as a pre-planned act of mercy?” Harry exploded, the familiar frustrating sense of being ignored, of having his words count for nothing when he knew everything that needed to be known.

“I want to believe you.” Sirius threw back, “but I know him-”

“No, you bullied him.” Harry argued, “you didn’t know a thing about him except what you did to him and the reasons you tell yourself why you did all that to him. You’re doing this task for the same reason and I’m not going to stand here and listen to you try to justify your actions. If you’re going to go hunt Snape down, then go. I hope, if he is alive, that he hexes you.”

Harry’s words stung, paralysing him.

He didn’t stop Harry from storming out of the kitchen, out of the house.

He couldn’t.

The anger boiled within him, eradicating the paralysing effect shock had on him at Harry’s outburst. He stormed upstairs to his room, grabbing his rucksack that he had packed the night before. A fury seared within him, behind his eyes.

He was going to complete his task, Sirius vowed to himself, he was going to drag that slimy bastard back to magical society and have him publically exposed for exactly what Sirius knew he was.

He had come between him and Harry, Harry’s sentimental loyalty- Snape had brainwashed him, there was no other explanation that Sirius was willing to consider.

He couldn’t believe the way the world had turned out since he had been in the Veil. He just knew, if he had been with Harry throughout the war, they would not be arguing about Snape’s so-called heroism.

He prepared to disapparate to Cokeworth- the place he learned from Harry that both Snape and Lilly had come from, knowing also from Harry that Snape had grown up in the run down part of this town.

He knew, deep down, that the only way he was going to get Harry to stop being angry at him was to prove that he was right all along.

He had the same drive within him, the same furious force, that had been harnessed only once before: to escape Azkaban, to destroy Wormtail for what he had done.

Hunting Snape felt deeper, Sirius sensed, an unleashing of his inner violence, the dark animal within him that he had muzzled and caged for years out of social respectability, out of politeness and an attempt at professionalism whilst in the Order. As much as Snape made it hard for him to behave professionally towards him.

Hunting Snape was like hunting hares as Padfoot.

He imagined his thin neck caught between his teeth.

His body pinned down by his in submission, in defeat.

He imagined black eyes, narrowed with anger at him, glaring with recognition that he had lost- that Sirius had won and put him in his place.

He imagined biting down on that thin neck.

So vivid was his inner world that he could feel the pulse beneath his mouth, beating against his lips-

He forced himself to finally leave Grimmauld Place in a snap of apparation, before his body could react to the imagined proximity of his body upon the other man in his head.

. . .

The gale force wind that struck Sirius across the face proved to be a strong enough distraction as he landed in a secluded spot in the town centre of Cokeworth. Although, what made it the town centre was debatable- it was just a small market, the floor littered with the fruit that had rolled off the stalls. He stepped out of the alleyway he had landed in and was nearly run over by an old woman dragging a trolley behind her up the hilled pavement.

The marketplace was the only brightness in this town centre, Sirius noted, seeing the periphery buildings were a collection of betting shops, closing down discount stores and boarded up establishments. It was hard to imagine anything magical growing from this place. With a sigh he walked around the area, the accent of the people telling him he was far away from London.

Leaving the town centre he walked towards the outskirts of Cokeworth, finding the area getting more run down with each passing street.

And suddenly he was faced with a view of destruction and debris.

Loud machines pushed by in the distance where rows and rows of houses were being torn down.

Harry had said that Snape was from the run down part of time- and nothing was as run down as this. He looked around to see if any muggles were in the vicinity, taking care to step behind a fence as he transformed into Padfoot for this part of his task.

He would sneak through the destruction, try to pick up on the scent he had in the back of his mind: Snape, sitting across from him in Order meetings, Snape, fighting him in his own kitchen, Snape, eucalyptus, tobacco, coffee.

As Padfoot, he covered much more ground in a much more direct way.

He padded around the abandoned terraced houses, his dog eyes timid at the sight of such claustrophobic buildings, so tightly packed in onto the one street together. He grimaced at the beeping, bustling sounds coming from the diggers and the demolition crew, working in the distance that grew closer with each step of his paws. Padfoot was a big dog, a big shaggy furred beast who needed a good wash and groom if he was going to win any dog-shows.

Despite his menacing appearances, he had a softness inside, a skittishness that flinched at loud sounds, loud like the sound of machines backing up, reversing onto broken glass and brick.

Sirius’ inner monster, his dark animal, was evidently something other than Padfoot.

Eucalyptus

Tobacco

Coffee

Padfoot put his nose to the ground, sniffing the area, lifting his snout and picking up on the scent he had been tracing- mixed in with something else, something unwell, something hurting. Iron- blood. Salt- sweat.

Padfoot stood outside a house that had been abandoned much like every other house on the over-crowded terrace.

The door had been left open, left for the demolition crew to destroy. Padfoot saw the crew in the distance, far enough to not be a threat to him.

He padded inside, passed the open doorframe and stepped straight into a living room.

He ran his nose along the floorboards, a threadbare sofa. His tail waggling with excitement that he had found exactly what he had been searching for.

He made his way to a pile of abandoned, discarded, clothes, and sniffed.

He felt the scent of the man he was hunting fill his nose, his sensitive nose, capable of picking up more strands of scent than his human form ever could. He could see the man in his dog mind, he could see him alive, injured- very injured, but alive.

His face dived into the pile of dark clothes, heavy with the scent of presence, blood, sweat, a piquant collection of features that overwhelmed him entirely.

He wasn’t sure at what point Padfoot transformed back into Sirius.

He wasn’t sure when he realised he was laying, face down, gripping hold of the pile of clothing as if seeking an intimacy with the abandoned clothes that he had not had with another person in so many years.

And then he caught himself, scrambling away from the pile of clothes, shocked with himself.

He felt a flush of embarrassment cross through the anger within him, swirling around in his head like a toxic sludge. His eyes darted to the window above the threadbare sofa, as if worried his... episode had been caught by the builders demolishing the streets outside. In his mind, he saw men in high-vis jackets laughing at him, catching him sniffing Snape’s old clothes.

He just got... mixed up. Muddled.

It didn’t mean anything.

Sirius forced himself to assess the room, determining that this was the place Snape had been hiding, perhaps since he had escaped the battle of Hogwarts.

No one had known where he had grown up, no one but Harry, apparently, so no one had known to track him down in a slum like this. He saw blood on the floorboards, large drops had soaked and expanded onto the fabric of the sofa. He had turned up in this house injured and Sirius remembered what Harry and his friends had said about their last encounter with Snape.

The Shack.

Voldemort setting his snake on him, the deathly attack.

The blood, as Nagini struck his throat, ripped his neck apart.

And then the supposed pensive memories, given to Harry, witnessed only by Harry.

He tried to imagine someone being able to escape what looked like almost certain death in that Shack. He tried to imagine someone escaping with these sorts of injuries and attempting to heal in a place like this house- the resources were incredibly limited. How had he done it?

Empty vials littered the floor, potentially filled with healing potions Snape had consumed and administered since arriving here. A tin tub stood by the wall, filled with water than had cooled, a towel was placed on the floor by this tub, still damp.

There was the potential, Sirius thought, that Snape had left this place not long ago.

He could pick up a trail.

He tried to ascertain what Snape’s plan could be.

Whatever the plan- it would not involve apparation. He would be in no fit state to apparate safely. He would not fly on a broom, Sirius smirked to himself, knowing that the man thought little of broom travel. He wouldn’t have a portkey- these were entirely regulated and controlled by the Ministry and if the Ministry had any inkling of where Snape was, Runcorn wouldn’t have sent him on this task.

That left exclusively muggle methods of transport.

He had little... experience in this and wondered how he would figure this out.

He sighed, determining that he had no need to stay any longer in this house, the approaching demolition crew would strike and erase the place from existence by the end of the day. He looked around him, deciding that he would take the care Snape had not placed by removing all evidence of magical paraphernalia left behind: the vials, the cauldron, books.

As he worked, he found himself stood before the pile of clothes he was now pretending did not exist, embarrassed at himself for his behaviour towards the clothes.

He would destroy the clothing, but a part of him wondered ... if it would be prudent to keep hold of something with Snape’s most recent scent- for Padfoot to seek out, of course. He knelt down, finding a black long sleeved shirt, blood stained at the collar and rich with the scent profile he had breathed in so deeply. He found himself incapable of erasing this last piece of... evidence of Snape. He shoved this shirt into his holdall, making his way out of the house, closing the door behind him like it mattered.

He walked as Sirius, on two feet, feeling the strong wind on his face as he stepped through the deserted street, shielding his eyes from the flying dust and debris that threatened to sting his vision. It was eerie, as if walking through a graveyard. He walked and walked, trying to figure out where Snape went next. What his next steps had been- what his end goal could possibly be.

He had been on the run, Sirius reflected, he had been on the run as a much, much more high profile villain that Snape was currently. There were no newspaper warnings with his face on the front page, there were no posters around Diagon Alley warning people not to engage with him.

Sirius stopped walking as this thought lingered in his mind: why wasn’t Snape being hunted in the same way he had been?

Why was Snape’s existence not even confirmed by the Ministry?

What was with all the secrecy?

For the first time since he had said yes to this task, Sirius felt a flicker of uncertainty about the whole thing and where it was that he fit in all this.

His attention was drawn to the sight of a single-decker bus passing by beyond the rows of demolished terraced houses and he realised that a bus would have been how Snape had moved away from his home- it didn’t answer his questions about where he was going but it presented a route.

He saw the bus stop not too far up ahead from him and he made a run for it, making it just in time, the driver kindly lingering by the stop for him to catch up and grab muggle coins he needed to count in his hand to pay for a ticket.

He sat down at the back of the bus, passing rows of half empty seats, occupied by one or two passengers. It was not a busy bus. Sirius took in the novelty of the bus, riding it like a child sat on a fairground ride. He observed the lacklustre view from the windows, fogged with age and graffiti. He looked at the posters that were placed on the plastic walls of the bus, seeing a sheet that listed each stop the bus would take: Number 44 Whitlow Village to Cokeworth Train Station, via Marsden Factory and Spinners End.

Sirius decided to sit on the bus until the end of the line. If there was any way of getting out of Cokeworth, any muggle way, a train made sense. He would take his investigation to the train station next.

Somewhere, in the fading distance, a bulldozer continued its unrelenting destruction in the name of new beginnings for the poor in Cokeworth. Sirius wondered if Snape would miss his old house, wondered if this murderer, this war criminal- he pressed to remind himself, to focus himself on the facts he knew- he wondered if he had any sentimentality about things like his childhood home.

He didn’t think about why Snape would still be living there, what it could possibly say about him.

He didn’t think about why it was him who had been sent to hunt him down, and what that could possibly say about him either.

. . .

Sirius found himself stood inside the train station, the journey from where he got on the bus to the last stop had only been a few stops. He backtracked the steps, working out that he had stepped on the bus at a place called Spinners End. He looked at the screens above listing all the departing and arriving trains, platforms 1 to 4, going to bigger and livelier places like London, Glasgow, Liverpool, Cardiff. At a loss for his next steps, he wondered if he could ask for help.

He saw a ticket desk, a woman working the small cabin.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for someone that may have passed through here.” Sirius began, catching the woman’s attention.

He saw a bored look on her expression as she faced him. It was a look that Sirius was not used to seeing, strangers unimpressed with his appearance, uninterested by his looks.

“You police or something?” she asked quizzically.

Sirius had the common sense to say no to this, he decided to play on sentimentality.

“No, my ... friend.” Sirius forced himself to say, “he’s gone missing. He’s, uh, ill, so he shouldn’t have left the area.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear,” she spoke, a lot more forthcoming, a lot more insistent on helping Sirius now, “what does he look like? Do you know when he might have been here?”

“He’s about my shoulder height, he has black hair, black eyes, hooked nose, skinny.... dresses darkly.” Sirius listed off.

“He sounds a catch.” The woman said, a slight flush to her cheeks.

She met Sirius’ eyes and expanded.

“Who doesn’t like a lanky goth?” she winked, “I remember your friend from yesterday, he’s striking. Let me check the receipts a second... I remember now- Liverpool. He bought a one-way ticket to Liverpool.”

Liverpool.

And like thunder, it hit him. What Severus’ plan was, in it’s entirety. It all unravelled through his mind.

Sirius knew.

He thanked the woman for her help and walked away from the station, not needing a ticket, not needing to travel by train.

He knew what Severus was doing because he had done the same thing.

When he had escaped Azkaban.

When he had been on the run.

Before he had made it out the country- he had to find the escape route.

He got out of England by travelling first to the International Portboat Yard in Northern Ireland, in Lorne. But before the magical boats, he had been forced to stow away as Padfoot on a muggle boat that had left from Liverpool Docks to take him to this place.

The Portboats were for international travel, far stronger than any portkey and less regulated by the Ministry- it was outside of their jurisdiction, being located in Northern Ireland.

He smirked to himself, sensing that he had more insight than Runcorn could ever have imagined.

From one outlaw to another, Sirius knew the path Snape had taken and he was going to drag him back before he managed to escape to absolutely anywhere in the world.

. . .

Chapter Text

Sirius had landed in Liverpool and made his way to the waterfront. The bright blue of the River Mersey stood out like a ribbon against the orange brickwork of buildings, the newly constructed bars and old pubs that had been slotted into place between the working buildings. The smell of beer and wine carried across the docks.

 He felt a drawing of his body towards the nearest riverside pub. He rationalised with himself, that he had done a lot of detective work already today: so why not have a drink? He hadn’t had a drink the night before, in preparation for the work he needed to do today. He had earned a break- the voice inside his head spoke as he stepped into the pub. He ordered a pint and made his way to the balcony seat overlooking the docks, as if trying to convince himself he was still working if he could see the pier and the marina.

He took a sip of the beer and found his body unwinding in ways he had not even realised was taut. He felt a stiffness within his muscles relax, a tension headache lift between his eyes. He hadn’t even known he was so ... tense.

He needed the beer, needed it to unwind after a day of work.

He had never worked before. And it wasn’t as if this job had traditional clock-in-clock-out shifts.

He pulled out a cigarette packet from his coat pocket, lighting it with his wand when no one was looking.

His eyes followed the push and pull of waves along the river, winding around the pier he had ran across years back.

He hardly remembered the journey he had made, just bits and pieces.

Remus had purchased a ticket for him- he paid him back, he never wanted his old friend to pay for him but he didn’t have access to muggle money at that point in his life. He remembered it was night time and Remus’ face was lit up by the moon, a friendly moon- only a half full, but Remus had looked troubled. Any moon was a painful reminder for him.

Had been a painful reminder- Sirius needed to remind himself that his friend was dead and gone now.

They all were.

He was the last one left.

The reminder was a bitter one, a sadness he swallowed with each sip of beer.

He went and bought another one.

He had the sudden urge to make contact with Runcorn, there and then. To contact him through the two-way mirror, giving him an update, letting him know he was actually doing the job. He peered around at the tables that surrounded him on the balcony, he was in a distant enough space from everyone else that privacy could be afforded- he would charm the area around his table, offering even more privacy.

“Ah, Mr Black.” Runcorn’s voice was a dullness in the dark of his office.

“Just thought I’d check in.” Sirius offered as means of an explanation, taking a long drag of his second cigarette.

“How very diligent.”

Sirius felt his skin prickle in annoyance, the tone in Runcorn’s voice was dismissive rather than appreciative.

“I have a suspicion he’s in Liverpool, of has been near Liverpool recently.” Sirius cut through.

He didn’t want to give away the information about the docks, not just yet, in case the hypothesis didn’t pan out.

“Any sightings to support this suspicion?” Runcorn asked, his face looking away as if he was working whilst talking.

“An employee at the train station remembered him from the day before.” Sirius gave, “that’s how I know he’s in Liverpool. He got on a train to this location.”

“Perhaps he wants to sightsee? Perhaps, for reasons entirely unknown, he likes the accent? Perhaps Liverpool was one stop of many along the country. If I was a traitorous, murderous, outlaw, I quite think I’d be on the move constantly. I wouldn’t be staying overnight in Liverpool.”

“Look, I just thought I’d let you know I was actually working, if you’re not going to take me seriously then I just won’t bother next time.” Sirius barked.

He took a sip of his beer.

“You will keep me updated. Every day. Until you bring Snape to my office to be processed for trial.” Runcorn spoke slowly, deliberately, “and how hard can you really be working if you have time for a pint?”

Sirius disconnected the two-way mirror connection, shoving the old thing back into his bag roughly.

. . .

Runcorn sighed heavily as the two-way mirror returned to a one-way object again. He placed the thing on his desk and considered his options. He was... growing stressed.

He had made the choice to involve Black in this task at bringing Snape out of hiding because it had offered strategic advantages: the element of surprise, the historical hatred Black had for Snape that would blind him to any doubts that Snape was as bad as everyone said he was, the fact that Black was a capable wizard despite his years in captivity. He was also so incredibly rich that he hadn’t even thought to ask Runcorn for a fee or a stipend for his service, so he was cost effective too.

He had been tasked with bringing Snape to him and Runcorn saw Black as the ‘legitimate’ approach to solving his problem.

But, based on the contact Black had just made, the slurring, the obvious day drinking, the choice to make magical contact out in the open...

He was just glad that he had two approaches to solving his Snape problem.

In addition to the legitimate approach, he had the illegitimate option. He had MacNair in his pocket, tasked with having the traitor killed rather than brought in for trial. Runcorn wasn’t bothered how Snape was dealt with as long as he was no longer his problem: dead or life imprisonment, it was of little distinction to him.

MacNair was being paid- so why not feed him the information Black had just provided, send him to Liverpool to focus his bloodlust? Let MacNair get the job done if Black was going to be a liability.

He opened his office drawers, picking out a second mirror and made contact with his other option who seemed the better of the two right then.

. . .

Sirius stood up, no longer wanting to look at the pier and all the half-smudged memories he had of the place. He didn’t want to remember Remus giving him a hug, so brotherly, his cardigan soft against the clothes he had been donated, the first clothes he had worn since he discarded his Azkaban rags. He hadn’t wanted the hug to end, he had not been held in so many years. But he had the ferry to catch. He had to go. He remembered looking back at Remus on the pier from a window on the ferry, he remembered the feeling of being dragged away as the ferry began to push through the tide out to sea. His friend became a blur, a dot, and then he disappeared from view entirely.

He had walked away from the pier, deciding he would go on foot to search for Snape, wondering around like he could sniff him out as he had done in Cokeworth. He stumbled into an alleyway as Sirius and exited the other side as Padfoot, traipsing around side streets and trying not to be seen and caught by animal control.

Of course he couldn’t sniff Snape out in this busy, lively, city.

His scent was in his bag.

Lumbering against a fence, the beer he had drunk making him stumble, he turned back into Sirius, leaning on his knees on the dirty floor. He dropped the bag and yanked open the zip, rummaging until he found the black shirt, raising it to his face and breathing, breathing like the fabric was oxygen and his lungs were gasping. Breathing like the scent was everything he needed, a need he hadn’t even known but now he knew he couldn’t unknow.

He felt his body tilt forward, dangling until he reached the floor.

He fell, sprawled out in the alleyway with the sun on his back.

He fell asleep with his face submerged in Snape’s shirt, snoring into the fabric.

Breathing in.

. . .

Severus stirred awake, alerted to the sound of yelling beyond the closed curtains surrounding his hospital bed. His eyes lifted to the red dash lines of the digital clock on the wall: two o’clock in the afternoon. He had slept a very long time. What was he still doing here? A sharper thought snapped him from his daze- he may have been in hospital, but it was a muggle hospital, not equipped to handle his injuries. He was just about managing the impact of his injuries with the healing potions and he had missed taking them the night before- and because he missed one, he grew weaker again and slept even more.

He forced his body to sit up, reaching for the holdall and grabbing a vial. He drank it quickly, immune to the taste by now. The tubes attached his hand tugged as he moved, causing his body to cringe at the feel of the interference of these tubes along his vein. He was certainly hydrated.

He wasn’t sure if the drip he was attached to was making him feel the need to urinate, or whether it was the two mugs of coffee he had drunk before, but he found himself pushing himself to his feet from the hospital bed. He was glad to see that he was in his clothes still and not a hospital gown. He needed to leave soon, after all.

He found the stand that the drip was attached to had wheels and could be dragged along with him. He used the stand almost like a walking stick, where his limbs were still shaking. He pushed through the curtain, seeing the business of the ward around him, the sick patients, the nursing staff. He saw a sign pointing him in the direction of a toilet and followed it.

There was a mirror in the bathroom and what he saw staring back at him was a shock.

He closed the door behind him, leaving himself alone with what he rationally knew was his own reflection but felt so detached from him it was as if his own shadow had flown loose and been replaced by someone else.

The individual parts of him added up: black eyes, hooked nose, long lank black hair. But accompanied by the purple mottled bruising on the side of his head, the gauntness of his existence, and the bandaging around his throat, his body felt like a hideous stranger.

He looked away from the mirror above the sink in the bright white locked room. He focused on urinating, focusing on keeping the stream targeted within the bowl and not on the seat, or worse, the floor, with his tremoring hand.

He flushed and washed his hands, eyes darting to his reflection, finding it hard to claim the sick looking thing.

It had been so long since he had seen himself and it made him feel as sick as he had been after he had consumed the fry up in the cafe the day before.

He lifted his eyes to his own eyes, lost in the abyss, the black void. It was as if the war had taken his very spirit, his soul, whatever it was that made people ‘alive.’

In the mirror, he watched his hands lift to his throat, a tug of the IV tubes pulling on the back of his hand as he did. He found the end of the white bandaging wrapped around his throat like a skin tight scarf.

He began to unwind it.

Just to see what lay beneath, what existed beneath the gauze surface.

As he unwrapped the white layers he came to see specks of dark red, brighter, the closer he got to the wound. Flashes of terrifying images, memories, filled his mind- invisible to the mirror, but very much alive in his head. A gigantic, unhinged jaw, sharp curved teeth, reptilian eyes feasting upon his fear, the knowledge, that Severus had expected to die despite the work he had taken to survive such an attack, in that moment before the teeth impaled his flesh, he forgot about all the potions, all the antidotes, all the plans he had made on the basis that he would survive the war.

He might have physically survived the war, but when his eyes landed on the rawness of the healed but unhealing wound he wondered if some other part of him had not been protected by the antidotes and blood replenishers and had died that day in the Shack after all.

Maybe that was why he looked like a corpse.

He didn’t want to face his reflection any longer, he didn’t want to face anyone else.

He wanted to leave the world behind, burrow away in the cottage in Drobhna.

It wasn’t a new life he was escaping to, Severus determined, it was a grave.

A grave that could not be desecrated by Death Eaters or Aurors: he would have his peace even if it was in death.

And it wasn’t going to come any closer to him, waiting around in a muggle hospital toilet.

Re-wrapping his throat in the bandages, he went on to rip the IV tubes from the back of his hand, surprised by the show of blood that spluttered and the clear liquid that dripped from the now disconnected tube dangling from the pole. He wrapped tissue paper around his hand and stepped out of the toilet, briskly walking to where his bed was located on the ward, grabbing his holdall as quickly as he could and walking away, discharging himself without notice.

. . .

Severus made his way slowly through town from the Royal University Hospital on a bus that went towards the docks. The spluttering stop and start of the engine caused his sensitive stomach to lurch and he wondered if he needed to rush off if he was going to be sick again. He had not eaten since the disastrous cafe fry-up the day before, the hospital food was unappealing and he had slept through breakfast and lunch. He considered whether something small and sweet would be enough to settle him, to give him a kick of energy. He remembered the dry cereal bars he had been living off in Spinners End and found himself wishing he had thought to pack one or two in his holdall.

When he saw the blue of the river Mersey, reflecting the clear summer sky above, he stepped off the bus. He saw a ticket office for ferries travelling to the Republic of Ireland, Northern Ireland, and the Isle of Man. He saw a stand that sold donuts and wondered if the sugar rush from the sweet things would be what he needed. He purchased the smallest offering, three donuts for a muggle pound. The white paper bag was warm in his hands, the smell of melting sugar powder causing his mouth to water. He made his way to a bench that overlooked the river Mersey, a view of boats bobbing on the waves, preparing to depart.

The bench he sat upon was warm from the sun’s rays that fell from the cloudless sky. He smelled salt from the water that the river Mersey ran towards, the open sea between England and Ireland. He closed his eyes and tried to steady the frantic pulse within him, the stress that he sat beside on the bench: the first step of his journey was almost reaching its end, he had almost finished this part of his journey.

The next step of the journey was... harder for him to visualise.

He had not been to Lorne before, let alone Northern Ireland. He had never seen the International Portboat town, he didn’t know what to expect- he knew that Northern Ireland did not have an extradition treaty with the Ministry of Magic in Great Britain so Aurors would have no official jurisdiction to drag him away, but that would not be a deterrent for the most determined Aurors. It certainly would not deter any Death Eaters that were after him.

He wondered if his fake passport was convincing enough to the muggle ticket officer. He didn’t want to use magic to confound them, but if he had no choice he would have to. He had to get through this first step and then maybe the second wouldn’t feel so daunting and impossible.

He lifted a still warm donut from the paper bag and bit down into it, a surge of sugar shimmering in his blood, rushing through his veins. He looked down at his hand as he chewed, the tissue paper was still wrapped around his hand, the red blood holding it in place. He wondered if there was something wrong with his blood, if his injuries had not fully healed by this time. He was sure enough time had passed since Nagini struck him that he shouldn’t be bleeding still, however slightly.

Arthur hadn’t been bleeding for this long- but Arthur had been hospitalised.

Severus could not go to St Mungos.

He wondered if Arthur was alive at that point. If all of the Weasley’s had survived- they made up such a large amount of the Order. He knew the Order had won the war, but he was so disconnected from magical society at this point that he didn’t know any details. He remembered how he had tried so hard to keep as many people safe, alive, whilst undercover, whilst working alone with Dumbledore’s painting at Hogwarts. It had been a hell before death. He hoped, but he did not feel he had the right to hope.

So many had been lost before the Battle of Hogwarts, he needed to hope that not any more had died after he had been attacked and temporarily presumed dead.

It was something he would have to leave behind, shed like snakeskin as he pulled away by boat from the land; leave behind like a grave to his old life when he finally made it to the Ferryman in Lorne.

He had never met the Ferryman. He was a friend of Dumbledore, a contact, someone who agreed to give him safe passage to Drobhna, knowing that Severus would be going to live in total exile after the war. He had agreed to a lot of work, Severus thought, for a man he had never known. For a man who would have only heard horrible things about. But he had given Dumbledore his word and that seemed to make all the difference to Dumbledore- for one last time, it seemed, he needed to trust Dumbledore’s plan.

It hadn’t always been easy for him to do so.

He looked down into the warm paper bag of donuts and found it was empty. He hoped he could keep this food down this time. He sat down for a while longer, listening to the river, before finally mustering up the energy and the courage to go purchase a ferry ticket to Lorne.

. . .

MacNair landed in Liverpool and lit a cigarette after he had done so. He had made sure to land somewhere secluded, not wanting to catch the attention of the stupid muggles in the city. He felt as if he had landed in a rat’s nest, so dehumanised had he made non-magical people. He had not arrived alone. He had brought Greyback with him, a man who was eager for any chance of violence- sanctioned violence, against Snape. They practically had Ministry approval, with Runcorn having managed to secure his freedom and therefore his job in office.

If they cleaned up after themselves, if they left no clues behind to implement themselves or Runcorn, they stood to gain a lot of money. Enough to make an escape of their own.

Living a life on the run was no fun.

“Right, let’s look around then.” MacNair instructed, wondering if he could consider himself in charge when his ‘colleague’ was so violent.

Greyback simply nodded, following him down the street, all paths leading to the pavilion and the piers.

. . .

The chest beneath his face was warm, slight, a slenderness that contrasted so drastically with his broad shoulders and form. He lay down upon him as if he was a pillow, his body imprinting against him.

He shuffled upwards, seeing a dark familiar shirt- dark eyes widened in alarm, mouth gasping for air.

Sirius pressed himself up- realising he was pushing his own body up by crushing Snape’s beneath him.

His hands sunk into the man’s chest, crushing sternum and ribs, palms sinking as if stood in quicksand from the weight of his mass.

Crushing, snapping, spluttering sounds filled Sirius’ ears as he felt the warm red of blood pooling around his wrists from within Snape’s body, crushed by his own-

“I- I’m sorry-!” Sirius found himself speaking, voice echoing in his head.

He tried to stem the flow of red, tried to pull his body back together.

Black eyes met his, accusational and afraid.

. . .

Sirius lurched himself up from the ground, lost and disorientated, finding it hard to remember how he had come to be in this alleyway, cheeks sunburned. The sight of the black shirt frightened him, flashes of the dream still reeling in his head- he wiped his hands on his trouser legs, as if concerned he was coated in blood.

It was just a dream.

A nightmare.

He felt sick, sick thinking of the harm he had caused- however accidentally.

He struggled with the fact his nightmare had been about Snape.

His eyes narrowed, his brows knitting together- why was the shirt out of the holdall? Why had he fallen asleep on top of this thing?

Sirius finally agreed with what Harry had been telling him for weeks- he was drinking too much, he had gone too far, sinking so low as to sleep with Snape’s blood coated, sweaty, shirt in an alleyway like he had.

It was the drink, nothing more.

. . .

The boat was due to leave in the evening- the last journey of the day. He had no trouble purchasing a ticket with his muggle money in the holdall, his fake passport was convincing enough for the ticket officer as a form of Identification. It was encouraging, this tool of his new life replacing his old, his old name no longer needed, as it began to overwrite its baggage and history.

He walked along the pier, waiting for the time he needed to board the ferry, waiting for when he would leave parts of him behind. The wind was strong along the pier, a chill rushing through him. He pulled the hood up on his coat, trying to conserve the evaporating heat from his body. He held the holdall by a strap dangling from his shoulder, his body lopsided with the weight. He used his wand to charm the bag to be lighter, manageable.

He thought about what he was leaving behind.

He grieved his memory of Lilly, his regret, so unending: he placed it to rest.

He grieved Dumbledore, his guilt, so misplaced: he remembered instead the mercy of his act.

He grieved the life he never had a chance to live, the hopes and dreams he had been foolish enough to have as a child entering Hogwarts.

He grieved Harry Potter, the regret he had, the shame, that he had been so involved in his targeting by Voldemort. He had not seen him as his own person, not until he handed his memories to him and saw that he was more than the sum of his parents. He wished he did not need to die for the war to have ended. He too needed to leave this behind.

He could never grieve James Potter- no amount of time or change would be enough for this. But the bitterness he carried, the reactions he carried from being so victimised- he had to leave this behind, it would be hard enough to start his new life, he didn’t need the burdens of his old life weighing him down.

But Sirius Black? He had hated him, feared him- as an adolescent. He had hated him in his twenties, having believed whole heartedly that he had been the one to betray the Potter’s, revealed the secret of their hiding place to Voldemort. He had never been as convinced about something more than that in his entire life- and he had been wrong.

He did not want to think of Sirius Black- he certainly did not want to think of him as anything more than his second tormentor. Rich, spoilt, protected by his name even if he didn’t want it.

But when he saw him, escaped from Azkaban, locked away in Grimmauld Place- it was harder to justify fearing him, it would have been easier to pity him. But the contempt remained. The hate.

What was the point in hating a dead man now? Severus wondered, he was gone. Severus’ old life was to be gone.

He remembered silver eyes and wild dark hair, a man of incredible handsomeness- something he could not deny even in his hate.

He remembered growing up, knowing he was different for more than just the magic that flowed through him; he had grown up knowing that there was something not right about him.

He had crushes on the boys in his class in primary school, little innocent things he had felt and ignored. But when he met Sirius Black on the train to Hogwarts, this was a sensation that was impossible to ignore, to push away.

And then Black had insulted him, demeaned him.

His rejection was unbearable- too much to feel.

Too much.

He decided hate was easier to feel.

Especially as the years passed and he was constantly attacked by Black.

It was certainly easier to hate, made more sense to hate.

But that hate was bitterly wrapped up in the first taste of rejection he had felt from Black.

And then that hate had travelled inwards- to have feelings of unrequited attraction to a person who tried to kill him, had spent years humiliating him?

That was the most pathetic thing of all: a great and secret shame.

But it felt...  cathartic to admit this to himself, there and then: It made it possible for him to leave it all behind with everything else.

Admitting it to himself was all he had left- what good were these confessions to the dead who could not hear them?

A biting thought tore within him, a reminder that he was too much of a coward to admit these feelings to a living soul- knowing it was too dangerous, too laughable, to have done so. If Black had known, he would have destroyed him. He was capable of such destructiveness, such hurt, towards him, if he had known, Severus would have suffered all the more painfully.

It was hard to regret not speaking up when speaking up would have been his end.

The dead did not need to know the blindness of his heart.

. .  .

There was a moment of quiet before the wind changed and the clouds cloaked the sky in shadow. An unnatural silence that numbed the sound of voices and the passing of traffic along the river. Severus narrowed his eyes at the change, his eyes focusing on the passage of the waves without sound- not without sound. A buzzing.

Muffliato

Severus stood up before the first strike landed but was not quick enough to dodge the second.

The wind was knocked from him, his lungs deflating as he was knocked over the fencing along the pier, landing on wet sand and rolling beneath the underside of the wooden ceiling above. He felt his wrist take the full brunt of his fall, a groan held back by the biting of his lip. He forced himself to react, positioning himself defensively as MacNair threw himself over one side of the pier to the low-tide wet sand beneath where he stood, and Greyback landed on the opposite side.

He was surrounded.

“What a convenient place to catch you, Snape.” MacNair sneered, his wand pointing forward as he stepped closer to Severus, “we won’t need to dig a grave for you, the tide will clean up for us.”

Severus did not dignify the man’s posturing with a response. MacNair was very little threat- or, Severus reminded himself, he used to not present a threat: Severus was significantly weaker these days. He did not allow his body to react to the alarm that this recognition would incite. He needed to keep his wits.

“Did you really think you could get away with betraying the Dark Lord?” MacNair asked, almost sincerely, as if Severus’ capacity for subterfuge was legendary: he had got away with betraying the Dark Lord, after all.

“Snape has always been an uppity little bitch, MacNair,” Greyback chuckled, “he has a talent for repressing his feelings and thinks that makes him special.”

“Well, it did allow me to trick a talented Legilimens, did it not?” Severus rebuffed, before directing his eyes to MacNair, “why are you here?”

“Special request from the Ministry.” MacNair answered, smugly.

“The Ministry is employing blatant Death Eaters still?” Severus prodded, attempting to find more details.

“Runcorn doesn’t like that you saw him at a meeting or two,” Greyback laughed.

So it was Runcorn who was targeting him, Severus learned. He who was on the membrane of respectability, he who had the slimmest connection to the Death Eaters- but had indulged in his own private bigotry during the war- was sending people to get rid of the only person who could possibly speak out against his continuing presence in the Ministry post-war.

No doubt he had told his superiors that his actions during the war were made under the Imperius Curse.

Severus was a threat to his lifestyle.

So, there it was- the dregs of the Death Eaters, the ones too stupid to be deemed dangerous- or the ones too dangerous to have Aurors chase after him, in Greyback’s case- were here to kill him because a man like Runcorn wanted to carry on with his status quo rather than face his own personal justice.

He deflected hexes and curses aimed at him as the attack began, shielding himself from the onslaught. He struck back as hard as he was hit, he summoned an energy within him he had not known possible- his will to, if not live then to die in peace was unsquashable.

If he didn't die in the Shrieking Shack, if he hadn't died at Spinners' End...

He was not going to die beneath the piers of the Liverpool Docks.

. . .

Sirius made his way back through the city centre towards the river Mersey, knowing that, if Snape was going to catch the ferry, he would need to confront his memories of the same piers he had walked years ago.

He needed to get a hold of himself. There was no room for emotions in this task- and when he had to face things he did not want to face, did not have the capacity to feel- Padfoot made things manageable.

Finding a secluded spot, he transformed into the large shaggy dog.

His tail wagged at the sight of the water.

He ran along the promenade and then a whiff caught his attention.

Scent- the scent he had fallen asleep beside in the alleyway.

He chased the scent along the wind, until he stood on four paws in sinking wet sand, beneath the pier.

He growled as he recognised the other two individuals with Snape- fighting and attempting to subdue him, attempting but not quite making it. Padfoot could smell the scent of injury on the breeze and he barked menacingly, dangerously at the two attackers.

Distracted by the barking, Snape took his opportunity to strike and dismantle his enemies, sending them back to the ground, hands and feet bound and impotent.

Snape heard the barking once again, his eyes turning slowly to face the black dog beneath the pier with him.

Padfoot only had a second shared in the company of Snape, Sirius was too distracted by the sight of the man to transform back and capture him for himself, to drag him back to Runcorn at the Ministry.

He was too transfixed on those black eyes, wide with indescribable shock-

Recognition.

He tilted his head, an almost playfulness to his dog form, but it was not enough to make Snape stay.

He disapparated, disappeared like a blink.

. . .

Severus did not care if muggles saw him land upon the surface of the pier above: it was as far as he could apparate without splinching himself in half.

He ran through the crowd of people who paid his actions no question, assuming he was late for his ferry as he rushed away.

He was last in line for the soon to depart ferry; he handed his ticket, his passport, to the inspector, his palms shaking and tremoring uncontrollably.

“On you go, pet.” The ticket inspector declared, ushering him through the connecting tunnel to the boat.

Severus felt sick as he stepped onto the rocking boat, his sickness having nothing to do with the sea and all to do with the fact that he had just seen a ghost.

. . .

Chapter Text

Sirius didn’t care about the subdued, confused, forms that had been knocked down on the wet sand, he didn’t care that they were dangerous men, dangerous beasts.

He had seen Snape- had seen him beneath the pier, if only for a small fraction of time.

It appears that instead of catching Snape, he had provided the man with a convenient distraction from the two who had beat him to it. He rushed back up the stone steps, rushing through the promenade until he reached a public toilet, offering him anonymity to transform back into human form. He ran from the piss stinking toilet, rushing through crowds of people along the pier towards the boarding area for ferries. He had to hurry, he had to reach him.

He made it to a ticket office, the muggle workers refusing to let him pass as he did not have a fucking boarding pass.

“The next boat to Lorne will be leaving tomorrow, sir!” a man yelled at him behind the desk, “this boat has just left. You are too late.”

Sirius wanted to stun the man, to get him to just back down and let him pass- but he could not, the thought of using magic against a muggle was unthinkable. It was a line he would not cross. He listened to what the man said, his confirmation that Snape was heading to Lorne- as expected.

“Are there any other boats leaving from here right now?” Sirius double checked.

“No, just the one to Lorne.” The man confirmed, looking at Sirius with bewilderment, interpreting his question to mean that Sirius did not care what boat he took out of Liverpool, just as long as he got away, “we have a ferry arriving from the Isle of Man in twenty minutes. It leaves to the Isle of Man again in an hour. Did you ...want to book a ticket for the ferry to Lorne for tomorrow?”

Sirius did not have a day- he simply had to find another way.

He stormed out the ticket office, marching up and down the pier until he found the freight ships moored in a marina. He overheard the sound of crewmen preparing to leave.

“Next stop, Belfast, and a proper pint.”

Sirius didn’t need to strike these men with magic as a weapon- but he could use his magic with stealth instead. He used an Invisibility charm, remembering James Invisibility Cloak as he did, and climbed into one of the cargo holds.

Belfast was not far from Lorne- it was certainly closer than where he was in Liverpool. Much closer than the Isle of Man, which was where the only other means of transport was heading to.

He took a deep breath, sat within a box, hidden from view despite the Invisibility charm. The feel of the engine kicking into gear reverberated through his limbs, up his back, letting him know that he was pulling away from the marina and off on his way.

Hoping he was not too far behind- he had to catch him up as soon as he reached Belfast, hopefully this time and distance between them was not enough for Snape to hop on a Portboat at Lorne and escape out of his life for good.

When he first realised that Snape was most likely heading to the same International Portboat Docks that he had escaped to, years before, he was so focused on getting to Snape before he got on whatever boat he was taking across the world. Before he disappeared for good, escaped him.

But now he knew, his drive to find Snape went beyond the chance to catch him before he reached the Portboats- he knew he would search the world to chase him.

To bring him to the Ministry- of repeated, like a mantra, again and again as the boat rushed through the sea.  

. . .

The world around him rocked up and down, as if the rules of gravity had changed its mind about what was up and what was down on a whim.

He was running, tripping over the skimming stones of air and wind that rushed past him, tendrils of the unseen that seemed to be working for a force above and beyond nature.

He was running because he was being chased.

The black dog barked.

And he knew that if he was caught then he would be killed.

The black dog would succeed where the green snake had failed: his throat ripped to shreds.

He had no antidote to dog bites.

He was not a person in his dream- he was a hare, a rabbit, his only defence was his speed.

The black dog encroached on him.

The sound of heavy breathing wet on his long ears.

The world rocked upwards and he crashed down.

 . . .

Severus was not sure how he had managed to doze off- psychologically, he hadn’t: he was still running in his dreams, his nightmares.

He jolted awake, heart lurching against his chest as he scanned the area he had slipped into sleep. He was in a canteen, sat in a cushioned booth seat, he had tilted at some point, his body sunken to the table-top where a plastic laminated menu was positioned as if part of the table. He was just so tired.

He pushed his body upwards, and he remembered where he was there and then. He was sat on a boat, rushing through the Irish Sea on route to Lorne and the middle step of his escape plan. The sound of the ferry’s engine was a thrum in the background, a white noise that must have helped to send him fast asleep.

He was sat beside a window. He could see the vastness of the sea around him, other passengers walking along the deck, taking in the view of grey skies and grey waves. It was as if it was a different season, out in the sea, compared to what the weather had been like back in Liverpool.

On land, the sea had appeared a deceptively stunning blue, the skies a glow of cerulean.

Severus had the same sense of feeling trapped, encroached, by the bait of blue which had now been switched to grey.

He felt tricked and it wasn’t because of the weather.

A dark shadow existed within himself- a doubt, an inversion of trust.

He had placed so much trust in Dumbledore and his plans.

He had placed so much trust and ... hope in this escape plan.

It had begun as a small seed of childish want, sat with Dumbledore in his office. But Dumbledore had coaxed him, encouraged him to share enough information for him to make the escape as easy and as right for him as possible.

Across the years, Drobhna had turned into a promise land, the remit of his exodus from both the British Wizarding world and magical society- the promise of peace after all the hell he had to endure- that he had endured.

But what if it was a lie?

What if Dumbledore really, truly, had not cared for what happened to his life after the war?

He certainly had not cared for his life as a student, nor did he give much concern for his life as an adult- not unless Dumbledore needed something from him.

And Dumbledore had been manipulative, and cruel, towards him plenty of tines.

He was not needed now the war was over, now that Dumbledore was dead- because of him.

 Because as much as his killing had been an act of mercy, as much as it had been a strategy to imbed him into Voldemort’s trust... he had been the one to end his life. He had used the death curse against a human being, thereby eradicating a piece of his own humanity.

What if it had all been a dark test by Dumbledore?

If Severus killed him- it would prove he was evil and unredeemable and therefore unhelpable.

 But if he hadn’t killed Dumbledore...

He remembered the look on Bellatrix’ face, the look on Greyback’s face the night Dumbledore had been killed.

If he had waned, there were plenty of crueller monsters in their company who would not have shown Dumbledore mercy that night.

He was damned if he had and damned if he hadn’t.

What if Drobhna was a trick, instead of the reward for his loyalty?

What if Dumbledore had never truly believed he had been loyal to him, to the Order, to the cause?

What if Dumbledore had truly, deeply, only seen him as the abhorrence he saw himself as- especially after he had ended his life?

What if, the moment he stood off the ferry in Lorne, he was surrounded by Aurors, by Death Eaters, by the members of the Order who had survived, his ex-colleagues from Hogwarts who despised him for what he had done - all ready to arrest, to judge, and to execute him.

Together.

He had been an enemy to all these people, after all.

And what better way to unite opposing sides than to face the common enemy that was he?

Anxiety swelled within his chest, expanding within him like a balloon on the brink of bursting. He needed to walk, needed to move, needed to spend whatever kinetic energy that remained inside him to burn off this feverish fear that he was approaching a net or a cage or a deer trap about to snap across his throat to finish him off.

He made his way up to the counter of the canteen, asking for a cup of tea and paying for a packet of cheese sandwich. Eating something was so far from his mind, but, if the attack beneath the pier at Liverpool docks had demonstrated anything, it had shown that he was certainly being chased. Attacked.

He needed to keep some strength up, to defend.

Especially if the black dog he had seen beneath the pier really truly was Sirius Black, back from the dead.

He smirked to himself, as he took a small bite out of the sandwich, thinking it was foolish to entertain the notion that eating anything would give him the strength to fight death when it came for him.

When the black dog came for him.

. . .

. .  .

Severus found his way out to the deck.

The feel of the open-air rushing passed his face, through his hair, like cold fingertips, felt sensual against his scalp.

He closed his eyes, growing dizzy the longer he stood on the rocking deck.

He just wanted to pretend, just for the moment- pretend what, he wasn’t sure.

But he wanted to pretend.

He kept his eyes closed as long as he could, until the rocking of the waves below grew too rough, threatening to knock him over.

He opened his eyes and stepped forward, each step taking him closer to the fencing that existed to protect passengers from tumbling overboard. His hands held the railing, cold and solid, his palms wrapped around the pole.

He peered over the edge and saw an exit from all this.

The waves, the crushing power of the sea, the peaceful hue of green, blue and grey.

 White foam scarring the surface of the water as the ferry cut across the sea towards its destination.

He peered deep into the sea, into the abyss, and thought how definite his peace could be if he was to fall and sink, burrow to the bottom of the sea, as if climbing into bed. How permanent.

The definitiveness of this exit offered Severus something concrete, something that asked no questions, presented no confusion. No debate. No anxiety. Just calm.

There was no risk of being caught, dragged back to his old life, killed for the things he had to do during the war- not if he jumped, there and then. The shame he felt, the backbreaking shame he would go on to feel if confronted with anyone from his old life: judging, seeing and condemning him. No one to advocate or support him. He didn’t have the energy to fight for himself. Jumping off the boat seemed like the right idea, given all his options, the power of his fears.

But there would be nothing more. Nothing at all.

And Severus, as destroyed as he was by the war, by his entire life so far...  he was not sure if he was ready to die like this.

He was ill, he was injured, he was severely weakened, but he clung to the idea of Drobhna in his mind like it was a lifeboat and he was already lost out in the sea below.

As long as Drobhna was an option... he would take the risk of being caught, captured- he would burrow himself away in Drobhna and not the sea below.

He opened himself up to the anxiety, the strain, the chest ripping strain, of continuing to live if just for now- the questions that living threw up into the air like vomit.

He opened himself up, raw and wounded, to the risk that Dumbledore had tricked him this entire time.

He opened himself to the risk that his exile, his peace, in Drobhna did not exist.

Because, in a sick way, it was the only way to challenge these beliefs- he had to know: had Dumbledore trusted him at all, during the war? Had he been an evil person, as he feared, or had he been working for the Greater Good? Had Dumbledore... cared for him, at all? Respected him? Liked him, if just for his uses during the war? He could not live with the question mark, the unknown. He needed to know if Drobhna was as real as Dumbledore had designed for him or if he had just been a fool to believe.

He held on.

He held on to the cold railing surrounding the periphery of the ferry, the sea a comforting source of company in his loneliness, a whispering offer of peace instead of a forceful command to jump and die.

He looked out into the distance ahead and saw the burgeoning specks of land begin to spore into sight like algae on the water’s edge, growing bigger, wider, more defined the closer the ferry dragged across the waves.

Whatever happened, when he landed, he would need to face.

The sea was not to be his resting place.

Despite his decision, his signing away of his soul to whatever happened when he docked, his thoughts still lingered on the curiosity, the unknown, the danger of the black dog that had stood before him beneath the pier back in Liverpool.

How had Sirius Black returned and what did he intend to do if he caught him?

. . .

Sirius Black had been too focused on Snape to realise that he was being stalked by the same men who had sought out Snape.

They had already been told by Runcorn that Black was involved in catching and killing Snape- presenting the information as a challenge of sorts, a competition as to who would end him first out of the two parties. Greyback had recognised the black dog, had smelled the scent of the animagus. He had watched the man run to the boarding area for muggle ferries, seeing him rush out moments later when he had realised he had missed the boat.

Following Black made their job much easier, MacNair agreed.

Instead of blindly following half-baked clues for where Snape was going- they would simply let Black lead them to him.

They would swoop in and claim the prize by killing Snape before Black did.

“It’s so much more satisfying to work smarter, rather than harder.” MacNair summarised to Greyback, his agreeing sneer turning to face him as they snuck on the same freighter ship as Black.

The boat shook and tremored as the engine began to work, pulling them away from the marina and out to the Irish Sea.

Chapter Text

There were no welcoming crowd of pitch-fork carrying ghosts from both the Order and the Death Eaters as the ferry moored into Lorne.   

There were no angry ex-colleagues ready to throw stones at him as he stepped off the bridge that joined the ferry to Northern Ireland. The nightmarish visions of public condemnation had proved to be an anxiety-induced dead end.   

There was no one to arrest him- but there was a muggle passport control officer that seemed unimpressed with Severus’ identity papers and took him aside for extra scrutiny on the matter.   

Severus had complied on the surface but, inside, his frazzled nerves were on their last threads. He had wanted to rush through the muggle side of Lorne to reach the magical side of this seaside town. He had wanted to reach the Ferryman as fast as possible- to know if that last final step to Drobhna was real or a lie. Getting there faster was the only means he had at hand to survive the anxiety that circulated inside him.   

“Mr Prince- can I call you Mr Prince or would you prefer-?” the passport control officer asked.  

“Mr Prince is fine.” Severus interrupted, briskly, the tightness of his arms wrapped around his waist provided a sharp stab of pain to his wrist.  

He remembered being knocked off the pier and onto the wet sand below, back in Liverpool. He had landed on his wrist, but the pain had been held back by a combination of shock, adrenaline – and healing potions, as soon as he was in a position to consume them on the ferry.  

He was sat in a small, claustrophobic cabin. Fenced off from the rest of the land, facing the open Irish Sea from which he had just arrived. He saw other boats passing on the horizon, little black dots in the slowly setting sun. He turned to the passport control officer, a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair.   

“What is the purpose of your visit in Northern Ireland?” the man asked, attempting to make conversation as he re-examined the forms of identity that Severus had been given by Dumbledore.  

Was this how Dumbledore had tricked him, this whole time? Severus wondered, trying not to let the desperation show on his face. Had Dumbledore purposely provided him with papers that weren’t good enough? But the officer in Liverpool had been satisfied enough with his passport...  

“I’ve never been.” Severus offered as means of explanation.   

“So you’re on holiday?” the man sought to clarify.   

“I was unaware that tourists from England needed to explain their motives for travelling to Northern Ireland, considering both countries are part of the United Kingdom.” Severus rebutted, seeking clarification too- on why this man was interrogating him.  

“Yes, that is true.” The man smiled, “citizens of the UK do not need to provide a passport to travel from England to Northern Ireland- but you have brought a passport with you and it has been flagged as it displays suspicious markers. I am also struggling to find any documents associated with your name on our systems...”   

Severus had sat opposite the Dark Lord in Death Eater meetings for years, spying, in deadly danger on a regular basis. He had sat opposite Order members who hated him, had taught classrooms of teenagers who hated him- he had survived these encounters, he had walked out of every one of these unpleasant rooms.   

He could talk his way out of this cabin.   

Keeping his eye on the clock in the cabin sporadically, he endured an hour assessment with this man before he was finally given approval to leave the cabin and go on his way. It was all precious time that could have been spent getting to where he needed to be, spent instead dealing with the ridiculousness of muggle bureaucracy of all things. It was the sort of thing that unravelled a plan, the unpredictable factors that dig their heels into the road, hindering the agility and dexterity of a person’s escape. It was growing dark by the time he was released.   

As he stepped out of the cabin, marching grumpily through the car park beside the pier, he huddled into his coat as a gust of breeze roared through him. He marched with the determined steps of someone fuelled by anger, until he reached the gates of the carpark and faced an uncertain route to the magical town of Lorne and the Ferryman. He looked around, the sense of disorientation growing within him as he recognised nothing about his surroundings- how could he? He had never been here before.   

He didn’t know where to walk next.  

At a loss for guidance, feeling rushed by the diminishing light of the setting sun, he followed the shore line north along a pavement and the open road.  

. . .  

Sirius had sat still for what felt like an endless amount of time, waiting for the freight ship to dock at Belfast. He had fallen asleep at one point in the journey- so bored that he was, with nothing but the cracks in the box to peek through for entertainment. He had been left alone with his own thoughts for too long and he sought sleep as the only means of escape in that situation.   

From his position, in the box upon the freight ship, he was shaded from the setting sun and experienced darkness much sooner than he would have liked. The box world he sat within grew darker, both wider and smaller simultaneously- wider, as in it seemed to reflect any and all dark spaces that existed within; smaller, mirroring the small tiny cell he had rotted within for years in Azkaban.   

Imaginary people had joined him in the darkness.   

Remus, James.  

Those were the two people he had been happy to see.  

He was joined briefly by family members who kept to the far corners of the box.   

Unwilling to see him.   

Why his mind thought to conjure them up in the first place, only to have them avoid him, was a guess only a Mind Healer could help him analyse.   

Before he fell asleep, a black-haired man stepped out from the darkness of the box.   

Sirius had watched him, watched him edge cautiously towards him, as if the walls of the box were pressing him inwards. There was a tentativeness to his steps, as if he thought the world would collapse with one wrong press of his boot in the black void that surrounded them. His black eyes met his and he froze.   

“What are you doing here?” Sirius had asked him, the silence cracking like ice.  

“You tell me.” Snape had rolled his eyes, finally breaking free from the intensity of their contact with his.   

Sirius followed him with his eyes, watching him examine the darkness that surrounded them both.   

“Why are you here?” Snape changed his question, all of a sudden.  

“You’re a figment of my imagination, Snivellus, surely you already know what I am doing here.” Sirius spoke sardonically.   

“Does it give you joy to continue to use a demeaning insult to address me, as adults?” Snape smirked to himself, “what does that say about you, I wonder?”  

Sirius felt his face harden.  

He was not going to be psychoanalysed by a figment of his imagination, of Snape of all people.   

“Is this the part where I say, sorry Snape, for bullying you for all those years, even though you turned out to be a murdering Death Eater all along?” Sirius sneered.   

A heavy silence followed his words, as if both men were holding their breath.  

“ I know that you don’t really believe that. Being a figment of your imagination, as you said.” Snape peered over his shoulder at him, “just like how I know it soothes you to pretend to think that I am evil, that, the ends justify your means. If I am evil, then, in your view, I deserved the hell you put me through, and I deserve the hell you will bring me back to if you do manage to hunt me down.”  

Sirius closed his eyes, wishing he could close his ears from the voice in his own head, speaking through Snape’s lips.  

“Have you ever considered what it would mean if you were wrong?” Snape asked, his eyes like drills through to his soul.   

If he was wrong?  

He felt a shiver of breath on his skin.   

He opened his eyes, sharply, seeing Snape was closer to where he sat, kneeling before him.   

Their faces staring into the other, black eyes exploring his body, his face, as if he was looking at him for the first time.   

And in a way, this figment was- they had only glared at one another before, in reality.   

Only watched each other, on edge, they couldn’t tell the other what their hands looked like when they weren’t scrunched up, balled, into fists. They couldn’t tell the other what their faces looked like without the expressions of violence and anguish, perpetrator and victim, on their flesh.  

Sirius felt his body tighten, his heart pounding in his chest at the proximity Snape gave him to his body. Sirius could feel electricity shooting through his blood, a blissful, undeniable, bulging of his erection. He crossed his legs, shielding the physical evidence from the figment of his imagination. From Snape.   

He felt a heat emanate from Snape, his eyes sinking into his, dripping down his body, falling into his lap.   

“If you really, truly, believed that I was a murdering Death Eater,” Snape spoke again, his voice barely a deep whisper, barely an inch from his own face, “how do you reconcile this belief, with your body begging to be touched by someone like me? That wants to touch someone like me?”  

“Don’t- don’t delude yourself,” Sirius deflected, noncommittally, his words attempting to deny the entrancement he felt to be this close to the other man.   

The mirage of the other man.  

This fantasy.   

“You, the so-called brave, courageous, Sirius Black, kennelled by Azkaban, the Order and then the Veil,” Snape mocked, darkly, “you want to fuck a murderous, Death Eater, like me. You want me to beg for your touch like you beg for mine. I see your thoughts, even if you refuse to see them yourself, Black. You want to throw me to the ground just to pin me down, to enter me-”  

“ Stop it .” Sirius suddenly yelled, before he could stop himself.  

He saw the mirage of Snape lift his eyebrow, raising himself away from Sirius sat in the dark box. Sirius felt as if he was going stir-crazy, withdrawing from the drink he had not consumed in hours. He watched Snape turn away from him, as if his eyes had snapped open and the water that resided within them was leaking down his face.   

And he walked away, as if rejected.   

Sirius felt his chest tighten- a desperate need to call the man back but that would mean admitting to himself- to his psyche- that he had only told Snape to stop because of the shame he felt at ... having been reminded of his mistreatment of Snape. But more than that, to admit to himself that something existed within him, something he did not want to feel for the man- something he felt so powerless over. Something that was becoming increasingly... harder to ignore, to suppress, to deny. Even to himself.  

Have you ever considered what it would mean if you were wrong?  

But worse than that now, for Sirius, was the realisation that even if he had been right, even if Snape truly had grown into being the murderous Death Eater he had been hunting for the last few days- he had still bullied the man for seven years, had still called him Snivellus, greasy oddball, had thought so little of his life that he had not considered that he might die as a result of a prank he had pulled. He had spent seven years humiliating him, harming him, unleashing all his rage and viciousness upon the easy target that was Snape.   

Bullied was too weak a word for how he had behaved.   

He did not feel good about his behaviour towards him, not anymore, perhaps he never had- had only pretended to feel good about all those years before. Because admitting he felt... shame, would be admitting he had something to feel ashamed of . That he had acted abhorrently, truly abhorrently to a human being who had not deserved his anger.  

And now he did not deserve any of these feelings he might or might not have had for Snape.  

He was kept awake by his past mistreatment towards Snape.   

Kept awake, until the black world of the box turned even further inward, consciousness dripping into sub consciousness, sleep hunting him regardless of what he wanted.   

And then a rocking tilt of the freight ship knocked him backwards, waking him from a sleep he had not claimed.  

He had finally arrived in Belfast.   

And not a moment too soon, if he spent any longer in this box he might have needed to transform into Padfoot, jump off the boat and swim his way to land as he had done when he escaped Azkaban. He had gone mad- seeing his dead friends, seeing him - growing aroused.  

He pushed himself free from the box, using his wand to charm himself invisible again, not wanting to contend with the workers beginning to lift and move the cargo from the freight ship, not wanting to have to explain himself to anyone.   

He looked backwards as he left, his eyes landing on the box where he had hidden away as one man and left as another.   

He had stepped into that box in denial of his wrong feelings for the man he was hunting down, and he walked across a pier to the mainland, another man.   

One who needed to remind himself that he was stronger than his stupid feelings, that he still needed to capture Snape and return him to the Ministry to face justice because –   

Because Snape could not get away with his crimes even if ... even if Sirius was willing to admit that there was something within him that felt something for Snape.   

He could not afford to deal with this.  

He needed to finish his task- to see if feeling useful, accomplishing something good, would help his memories of the Veil return.   

He needed to bring Snape back so Harry would see- would know that he was a hero too. He could capture Dark Wizards, he could bring justice to magical society. He had a place in the world. That he had a reason, a purpose, for coming back from the dead, from the Veil. That he wasn’t a waste of space- despite what he felt about his non-involvement with the Order, with not being there for his godson when he had needed him. There needed to be a reason he came back, when his friend, Remus, could not.  

He reappeared, visible again, as he stood in an alleyway beside the ferry ticket office and a car rental store. He leaned against the wall and collected his thoughts, trying to think, trying to remember the way to Lorne. Trying to focus on something else so he didn’t focus on black eyes, black hair-  

If he could just remember Lorne in his mind, the magical town, the International Portboat Marina. But his memories of this time and place were so fractured- there was little chance he could successfully and safely apparate with so little focus on his destination. He had to think his next steps through clearly- any delay meant the possibility of losing Snape to the wideness of the world becoming more likely.   

He heard a purr of an engine, a familiar and comforting sound amongst all the uncertainty and upheaval in his head.   

He used to ride his motorcycle, many, many years ago. He used to ride his motorcycle, speeding along the open country roads at night- focusing on the road ahead, the way the wind held his face tightly in the palms of its hands. Knowing that at any wrong-footed moment, any moment in the tight grip of the wind where those ghostly hands across his face felt too real: he might crash- it was exhilarating.   

This lost tightrope of fantasy, of connection, only seemed to remind him at that moment just how lonely he had been- even before everyone he cared about had died. The fantasy of hands, both soft and sharp, the wind a creature of temperament. He had dreamed of hands, had sought out hands that matched that wildness, but the reality of the men and women he had slept with had never felt as sharp against his skin as the wind had done whilst riding his motorcycle.    

He lifted himself away from the brick wall, the setting sun meeting his squinting gaze, as he stepped into the car-rental shop to rent the biggest, noisiest motorcycle that was available to him.   

He would ride to Lorne- his memories could not recount the way, but the muggle road signs would guide him.   

It wasn’t far to Lorne from Belfast, and he would be riding fast.  

. . .  

Severus would have found the blurring colours of sunset against the rippling sea to be somewhat pleasing, if the setting sun did not harbour a new problem for him. It would grow darker and darker and he had no idea what way to go to find the magical side of Lorne.   

The sky turned orange, red and gold.  

And then transformed navy blue, black.  

And with the sun, the last remnants of warmth left Severus’ surroundings.   

A chill was left to run around him, a strong wind pressing against his body as he tried to push forwards. A heavy body of wind almost knocked him down but he gripped hold of the wall at the right moment to prevent this, to steady himself.  

The stars were bright- the light pollution from muggle lighting was almost non-existent. Severus stood still for a moment, turning backwards to see the feint glow of artificial white from where he had started his journey at the docks. Safety lighting lit the way, like tiny lighthouses, along the pier. He had walked further than he had realised, the white lights were dots in the dark distance, like stars that had fallen to the earth.   

A familiar tremor shot up his legs from his feet, a heavy weight amassing upon his shoulders as if the world’s gravity had altered at some point along the walk. He was growing tired- and his tiredness was inescapable these days. He opened his holdall, seeking out a healing potion- anything to give him a boost of energy before it reached zero once again.   

His hands felt as if grip was becoming a distant thing from his body.   

The vial slipped from his palm, smashing on the concrete below. He carried on walking, walking until it was no longer possible to do so. He needed to consider a plan for resting at some point along this journey. He needed shelter. Warmth. Food would be a bonus.   

Something appeared along the sandy beach he walked beside. It was positioned across the long stone wall he was using like a walking stick, on the highest planes of the beach. The palm of his hand- the hand that did not ache from his fall back in Liverpool - pressed against the stone wall surface with each step.   

He squinted in the dark. It was a small hut, an old-fashioned changing room for people visiting a beach. As he stepped closer to the nearest hut, he realised that there was a long line of them. Possibly brightly coloured, it was hard to tell in the dark. He considered the feasibility of one of these huts as a source of shelter, just for a few hours.   

What other options did he have? He thought as he threw his holdall to the sand, as he forced his uncooperative body over the wall, landing on the soft hand that was a further drop away than he had thought. He felt a wince as he landed, his feet taking the brunt of the drop. He made his way to the hut, the dilapidated quality becoming more apparent as he stepped closer, his feet sinking along the uneven surface. He felt grains of fine sand slip into his boots and he cringed at the gritty presence that rubbed against his feet as it passed through his socks.  

He placed a hand on the small hut. In the moonlight, he could see it was pastel blue- or used to be, the paint had chipped so heavily that the colour may have just been bleached by age. The hut stood strongly, despite the age. The hinges on the door were rusty, but there was a lock that held the door shut for privacy when people had got changed for the beach in the past. He stepped inside, immediately benefitting from the shielding from the wind. He dropped his holdall on the floor, his body sinking to his knees as his legs buckled and bent.   

Exhaustion switched him off like the last light.   

. . .   

 The biggest and loudest motorcycle wasn’t big or loud enough, but it was all the car-rental place had available at the time. It wasn’t big, but it was fast. Sirius had twisted and turned the vehicle through the city roads until he finally escaped Belfast and faced an open road towards Lorne. It would take less than thirty minutes to get to Lorne, the car-rental employee had told him. He intended to get there in less time than that.   

He had been handed a helmet- since it had been so long since he had ridden a motorcycle, he accepted the muggle protection for his skull. As he sped through the long road, lit up by street lamps and the electric beacon on his bike, he began to feel pressed in and restrained by the helmet, unbuckling it with one hand and letting it go. He didn’t look back as the round helmet clamoured along the road, as if involved in a traffic accident.   

The wind ripped through his hair, whips of breeze pressed along his scalp like fingertips.   

As if he had a passenger on the back of his bike, massaging his head. He felt the wind touch his throat, sharply, like a fingernail trailing downward, passed his collarbone, along his chest, like two hands gripping hold of him, around him.   

Tightly holding on, the faster he sped down the road, the tighter the ghostly hands held on.   

The sound of the motorcycle roaring quietened his mind.  

. . .    

Severus gasped awake, jolted abruptly from his deep sleep by the roar of a passing vehicle. The mechanical roar was beyond the walls of the hut he had taken shelter within, the sound so rough upon his ears, so alarming- he pushed himself up into a standing position, grabbing his wand from his coat pocket. He was prepared for attack- he was defensive despite the frantic pulse of panic in his chest.  

The roar passed by.  

The night returned to silence once more.   

His chest did not stop heaving, his panic did not subside.  

It was unclear to him why his anxiety had skyrocketed at the sound of the motorcycle going passed so unexpectedly in the night. How was he to know what was expected and what was unexpected in Lorne? He was making inferences, the night up until that moment had been silent enough for him to doze. But that motorcycle had been like a knife cutting through the night. His mind and his body felt under attack, even if he knew, rationally, that this was not the case.  

He tried to ground himself, tried to reorientate himself, but failed at this impossible task. He bundled himself upright, grabbing his holdall with his strong hand, and sprinted off out of the cramped hut he had moments ago been sheltered within.   

He ran across the sand, panic and adrenaline giving him a burst of energy, the chemical blend of survival. He made his way to the wall that divided the pavement and the road from the sand and sea. He threw his holdall over the side and followed its trajectory, re-grabbing it in seconds, continuing his panic stricken flight from the beach hut.   

He ran along the pavement, his heart an incessantly beating drum, his pulse punching inside his ears. He felt a beam of white light flow behind him, he turned and saw a car quietly driving up the long road. He was exposed, out on this pavement, running like a scared animal.   

Before the car reached him, before the imaginary Death Eaters leapt out and killed him, before the fantasy Order members, or Aurors, sprung from the backseat of the car to strike him- he dashed off the pavement, off the road and into the bushes and trees. The white lights passing by, unstopping.   

The dark thistles and thorns scratched at his clothes, the darkness of the woods and bushes did nothing to alleviate his panic that had overpowered him back at the beach hut. He paused himself, struggling find out what direction he had run from and where he needed to go- but it was as if he had slipped into an abyss, so dark and-  

He grabbed his wand, a shred of common sense returning to him.   

A brightness emitted from the end of his wand, lighting the area that surrounded him. Enough for him to see that the darkness was just the thickness of trees, the denseness of the bushes. The ground below was unlevelled, tree roots and twigs intermingled with discarded cans of beer and glass bottles left behind by lazy muggles. He tried to slow the beat of his heart, tried to fixate on the reality of his situation and not the imaginary hell of worse to come-  

Something moved in the trees.   

Like prey, his body froze, alertness seeping from his skin in panicking sweat.   

Reality became the fantasy, an inversion of truth and lie. Out of the woods stood a monster of muggle fiction, but magical truth-  

“I smell your fear, Snape.”   

Greyback sniffed the air for dramatic effect as he stepped closer and closer, his tall stature so menacing. He lacked any familiarity with humanity, his body and soul warped by the violence he had indulged in as a werewolf. He looked wolf-like even when it wasn’t a Full Moon. Greyback may very well have been able to smell the fear from Severus through his sweat, but Severus could smell Greyback’s disgusting unwashed presence as well, even without the wolfish sense of smell.  

He was alone, it was one on one. Where was MacNair? Why could he not move? Why was he stuck, legs shaking, legs weak?   

Weakness crawled through him, a giving up of a fight he had been in for too long.   

He felt the restarting of his heart, the rebooting of his body, as Greyback made a leap for him out from the trees. He turned to run, sprinting through the thick trees, stumbling on the jagged roots- despair struck him as his foot caught on to an old, gnarled tree root, causing him to drop face first into the earth with a thud.   

He attempted to push himself back up, to carry on with his flight. But before he could coordinate his exhausted legs, a heavy pressure crawled on top of him, sitting astride the back of his thighs.   

“I didn’t think you would be this easy.”   

Greyback’s voice was a terrifying whisper as he leaned over his pinned body towards his ear.   

Severus sensed a deeper danger, more than his own death, a darker, more twisted danger within Greyback. He remembered all the stories about Greyback, how he had managed to incite disgust from Death Eaters with his predatory behaviours. He forced his body to twist and squirm to fight to escape.   

“That’s better, Snape, I love a struggle.”  

Severus stretched his hand out, trying to grab his wand that had dropped just out of his reach. He felt heavy hands press against his lower back, dig into his pelvis, laughter dripping from the beast above him. He felt his breath tighten, as his lungs lost space to the pressure upon him. He stretched out, willing his fingertips to touch the edge of his wand-  

A smoothness met his fingertips, a sharpness.   

It was a broken bottle of beer, smashed, sharp. One of the many left behind as litter by muggles in the woods.  

He wrapped his fingers tightly around the solid neck of the bottle and turned his body around as much as his spine would permit with the weight of that monster on top of him.   

He saw the smug, disgusting look on Greyback’s face, the hand that was not pinning his body down to the earth was wrapped around his own exposed cock, stroking himself to Severus’ supposed fear and struggle beneath him.   

He did not expect the attack that struck him- Severus had the element of surprise on his side, as Greyback’s focus was on other things. He lunged the sharp spikes of the broken glass bottle into his beastly face, pushing the weapon into his eye. The roar of anguish, of pain, of shock, howled through the woody area. Incapacitated, Greyback fell backwards, his hands attempting to hold his eye socket together, the blood dripping through his fingers. Severus took his one opportunity to live and darted away, ensuring he had his wand, his holdall.   

The trees thinned out as he ran, using his wand to light the way so to avoid any further trips.   

The light of his wand caught sight of a long wooden sign post, stood as if it had just appeared to Severus.   

Severus saw the signpost, read the directions and turned left, knowing he had finally found his way to the magical town of Lorne.  

. . .   

Sirius followed the road, roaring along the deserted empty space with relish. He could not hear the sea above the bark of his engine, but he saw it, waves passing by beneath the moonlight and the stars.   

He was hit by a memory.  

As the road turned into a siding, as the sight of a wooden sign post on the corner of where the road carried on further and divided along the siding, he knew he had seen this wooden sign post before.   

He kicked the breaks of the engine, parking the bike on the side of the road whilst he examined the signpost. It was charmed- it highlighted different things, depending on whether the person reading it was magic or muggle. Sirius lifted his wand, casting Lumos, to get a clearer view, inadvertently triggering what was needed to cause the magic signage to show.   

He had proved to the old signpost that he was magic.   

Magic Town of Lorne, home of the International Portboat Marina  

Sirius followed the arrow on the sign, leaving the muggle realm of Lorne behind.  

. . .   

Chapter Text

Severus lifted his hood over his head, shielding his face from the casual view of passer-by’s who were too focused on their own travels to pay him any attention. Lorne had the scent of sea salt in the air, wisping around on the breeze with the heavy dedication of incense in a holy house. Severus wondered if the sea salt kept bad spirits out of Lorne, and if it did, whether it would work to keep his hunters away from him.   

If he was the bad spirit then the sea salt was not doing a good enough job keeping him away from the town.  

He could hardly believe he had made it this far. He slumped through the town and struggled to find the penultimate destination before his final step to Drobhna: the Ferryman pub. Despite his clumsy exhaustive gait and the dwindling of his health, he had rediscovered the quiet confidence to survive which had carried him through the hell of the war. He was driven by the evidence of his success- he had made it this far.   

It had been so long since he had been within magical society and it hurt him to be present. He saw all the wizards and witches, old and young, local to Northern Ireland but also worldly. This International Portboat Marina connected the magical world together, but he felt like an unwanted and leprous interloper, sneaking his way through. He was so cut off from society now, cut off from human contact, that the colourful robes and the fantastic, happy laughter was alien to him.   

He was an outsider, looking in.  

Until he took the last step on his journey. He would be an outsider until he took the one last step that tipped him off the edge of the world and let him be as isolated as he felt. To let the outside match the inside, instead of the disjointed and despairing present experience he suffered. He sought the quiet promise land of the shelter waiting for him in Drobhna like a shadow caught out in the open desert, the scorching sun, searching for the coverage of other shadows.   

And then he finally found the place he was looking for, the pub, on the edge of town, positioned as close to the marina as possible without falling in. The pub was old, ancient brickwork lined with ancient cement, encapsulated by the creeping ivy leaves that ran from the ground to the roof. It was late, but the inside of the pub was loud and active. Severus felt revulsion at the thought of stepping inside the crowded pub. It seemed like the biggest trap he had faced so far, to walk into a lions’ den, to deliberately surround himself with witches and wizards that could very well have suffered the wrath of Death Eaters during the war. People he would not want to be stuck inside a pub with, but ...  

He had survived so far, Severus reminded himself, as he pushed the door open.  

. . .   

Sirius made his way through the town, his memories returning to him like long lost friends.   

He found himself retracing his old steps, as if he didn’t have better things to do.  

He sat at a pub for one drink- just the one, he told himself. Pulling out the Two- Way Mirror again to give Runcorn an update.   

“I’m at Lorne, Snape’s at Lorne.” Sirius spoke, “he’ll most likely be getting a Portboat somewhere. I’m going to stalk the docks, keep an eye on departing boats. I’ll catch him.”  

Runcorn found himself feeling slightly impressed by Sirius’ determination, his resoluteness to getting the task done. But then he saw the man was sipping a beer and the familiar sense of having overestimated Black’s ability to prioritise the task hit him. The realisation that drink was a bigger priority for him than he was willing to admit.   

He would direct MacNair and Greyback to the docks in his stead.   

He knew the two were also in Northern Ireland- having split up to follow two different hunches. MacNair had thought Snape would go inland to hide out, Greyback had suspected he would go to the International Portboats.  

Greyback would get a raise for his efforts, his predictions, if he brought him evidence of Snape’s death.  

He had more trust in Greyback out of the three, to get the job done.   

. . .   

Stepping inside the Ferryman pub was an assault of the senses for Severus. The place was brightly lit with candles, bordering florescent levels of light. The noise of live music shook through his ears, shaking his mind of focus. The smell of drink made him feel nauseous, put him on edge- as much as he didn’t mind a drink once in a while, standing knee deep in the scent of it within a pub just made him think of his parents and the isolating despair that they had shared.   

They had each other in their dysfunction and their drunkenness; he was an outsider looking in, even back then. He had never felt connected to his parents, especially when he realised he was defending a mother who undermined the impact of her own mistreatment, on herself and her son.   

He had defended her in misguided comradery- they were both magic, both victims of his father’s fists, both othered by his anti-magic sentiment.   

He had promised to get her away from the life they had with his dad, she had been insulted by his childish offer of protection and had cut him off emotionally from that moment. Until her death, she had existed in a drunken orb of denial and danger with his father.   

The smell of it now, in the Ferryman pub, made him sad. It was a reminder of just how deep his loneliness went, it was molecular, embedded inside his marrow.   

He found his way to the bar, seeing a line of barmaids pouring pints and a lone man reaching for wine glasses positioned above the bar. He was about the right age, for Severus to believe that this man may be an old friend of Dumbledore’s. He was a man of average height, black skin, his hair black and greying at the fray, tightly curled around his face. He had a long black beard that curled and reached the front of his shirt buttons. He was dressed in a dark green shirt, sweat patches beneath his arms where the effort of moving around at the busy bar strained him. He had a wide smile with big teeth, yellow stained from a lifetime of smoking cigarettes. His smile reached his eyes, lighting up the dark brown with life, Severus noticed.   

“What can I get you?” The man asked, suddenly stood face-to-face with Severus.   

He didn’t know what to say at that moment and felt foolish.  

The older man searched his face, as if his kind brown eyes were trying to find a drinks order from him. Severus needed to hurry, needed to know if this was ever going to work, if Dumbledore had ever truly meant to help him-  

“Come on, friend, it’s last orders soon-” The man encouraged.   

“The Ferryman. Are you the Ferryman?” Severus whispered, concerned that his voice would not be heard above the din of the pub patrons and the live music.   

But his brown eyes froze, a shock of the unexpected evident on his face for a moment. He quickly turned to the barmaid closest to him, telling her that he had business to sort out, asking if she and the others will be okay to temporarily manage without him. The woman nodded, returning to serving the next customer seamlessly.   

“Follow me.” He spoke to Severus, walking off to the doorway that revealed a staircase that led to the house above the pub.   

Severus followed him, brushing past patrons who took his place in line, waiting for a drink.   

The calmness that followed Severus as he passed that doorway was a relief to him. He found himself inhaling, as if his body was ready to calm down prematurely just at the removal of sound and smell from the pub behind him.   

“Keep following, Severus.” The man spoke.  

The man spoke his name like he knew him, but Severus had never met this man before in his life. He looked up, saw the sprightly old man was three-quarters of the way up the steep staircase. His eyes were fixed on him as if he was certain that Severus would turn and walk away, changing his mind- if the man knew how hard Severus had worked to get to the Ferryman Pub, he would know that he was not leaving now.  

The home above the pub was a place of tranquillity and books. The floor was open, with very little walls. The kitchen was the same space as the living room and a lilac curtain divided a bed from the living space. A ladder existed to a floor above, although Severus could not guess what existed exactly in that space. A bathroom was the only room offered the privacy of a wall and a door. The man beckoned him to sit down on an armchair, offering to make him a cup of tea as if he had known him his entire life.  

“Are you the Ferryman?” Severus repeated, holding back the tight desperation in his voice.   

“Yes,” he finally answered, clicking a kettle onto the hob of an oven, lighting the gas stove with his wand, “how do you take your tea? Sugar? Milk? Albus didn’t tell me stuff like that, suppose he didn’t think it pertinent.”   

Severus found his body sinking to the back of the chair, his muscles unravelling as if he had been given a lifeline. Things were starting to make sense, to click into place, things were starting to feel... real again. After the fake, pretence, of his existence during the war as a spy, after the liminal state of his life after Nagini’s attack, after the uncertainty and doubt he had felt towards Dumbledore’s plan for his final escape... things were beginning to feel real. The Ferryman was real. He knew Dumbledore, and by extension, the Ferryman knew Severus- actually knew him and not the hell he had to live for the last year or so.   

“You’re gonna have to say something, Severus, no one likes a bad brew.”   

“Black. No sugar.” Severus summed up.   

The Ferryman grabbed a pair of mugs from the shelving above him, much like he had reached for the wine glasses above him down at the bar as he had worked. He had a grace to his movements that told Severus that he had worked in pubs for a very long time. He wondered how he had came to know Dumbledore- to know him enough to trust him with a task such as this. He poured the hot water into the two mugs, grabbing a half empty glass bottle of milk from a fridge to add to his own mug of tea. He spooned two teaspoons of sugar into the mug and stirred, the spoon clicking three times against the inside walls of the mug.   

“Right then, you’ll have to forgive the mess, I wasn’t expecting you to arrive so suddenly.” The Ferryman announced as he handed Severus his mug of black tea, sitting in the armchair opposite him.   

Severus noticed him staring at him, reading him, with curiosity rather than suspicion.   

“When Albus told me about all this, years ago now, we both thought you would get here a lot quicker. I had everything ready to go once the war in England was finally over,” The Ferryman grinned, his big top teeth taking up the most of his smile, “but it seems neither I, not Albus, accounted for the fact that you would be in a state like you are.”  

“I doubt even a man as wise as Albus could predict the snake bite not long before the Battle ended.” Severus mused.   

“But he did know you was taking precautions against the potential,” The Ferryman grinned wider, “you made an antidote that you were taking daily, and blood replenishers-”  

“How could you know this?” Severus interrupted, paranoia rising within him.   

“There’s not a lot I don’t know, concerning you and Albus.” The Ferryman explained, taking a long sip of his sweet tea, “which is a lucky thing, considering what I have agreed to do for you, and what Albus asked of you. But admittedly, I only brought up the potions you were taking to counter Nagini’s potential attack because I wanted to let you know that I am someone who has this inside knowledge. That I am someone you can trust.”   

Severus was not an easy man to gain the trust of.   

“Look. As I said, I wasn’t expecting you to arrive tonight.” The Ferryman circled back, “so I need to sort out a few bits before we can go. It’ll take a few hours. You look like you need a good decent night’s kip and a hot bath, so, here’s the plan: I’ll go run that bath, I’ll let you have a sleep on my bed and I’ll go sort out the Portboat.”  

The plan sounded so easy, so blissfully peacefully easy.   

The Ferryman downed what was left of his tea before Severus had even taken a sip of his own. He stood up and made his way to the bathroom, the sound of rushing water filling a tub seeped through into the living room where Severus sat, holding his mug of tea like precious cargo.   

“I’ll put some healing elixir in the water, that alright with you?” the Ferryman’s voice called from the bathroom, over the rush of water.  

Severus didn’t answer, but the smell of chamomile and lavender told him the man had added it anyway.   

“Right, I’ll get started with what I need to do, you keep an eye on the water- I’ve charmed it to turn off if it reaches the stopper, just in case you fall asleep. I don’t want a flood. Oh- and you can throw your clothes into the washing machine and dryer and all, we have time.” The Ferryman explained, “I’ll be back when everything is ready. But expect to leave in the early hours.”   

And then he made his way back those steep stairs to the bar below, out of sight and out of hearing range from Severus sat above. He finally took a sip of the black tea, the warmth a pleasant sensation against his lips. He drank it like he hadn’t drunk in ages- and, if he dared to recount the last few hours, he realised it had been too long since he had drunk anything, or eaten anything. He stood up from the sofa and found himself examining the space he had been left within, finding the Ferryman’s trust in him to be further evidence of the existing relationship he had shared with Dumbledore. It was hard to have someone evidently know so much about him and he know nothing about them.   

The house was a cosy one. Walls stacked high with shelves of books and ornaments. As he helped himself to a biscuit from a tin on the kitchen counter, he read the titles of books as he passed, making his way to the bathroom as he did to turn off the rushing tap. The bathroom was clean, painted blue and white. Sea shells lined a shelf by an open window; large, spiralling conches with wide open palmed clam shells. He found a towel and placed it on the ground by the blue bathmat. He went and grabbed a fresh pair of clothes from his holdall, considering he would have the chance to finally change and wash the disgusting clothes he wore currently.   

He shrugged the coat off of him, realising he had been wearing his hood up the whole time until now. He dropped it to the floor and peeled the once clean shirt from his body, now sodden with adrenaline and sickly imbued sweat and the dried blood from when he had defended himself against Greyback in the woods. He suddenly felt sick at the memory, of how close he had come to being violated by the monster, of certainly being murdered. If he hadn’t had heard that stupid, loud, motorcycle roaring passed, he would have slept longer in the beach hut. He would have slept, undisturbed, and found his way to the magical side of Lorne in the daylight.   

He tore the rest of his clothes from him, wrapping himself in the towel to throw the dirty things into the washing machine before he slipped into his bath. The washing machine reminded him of the machines in the launderettes of Spinners’ End, a sudden stab of nostalgia striking him- for a place that certainly did not exist anymore. He added the detergent and slammed the stiff door shut, the machine switching on as he pressed a button to start. Confident that the machine was working, he returned to the bathroom to sort himself out.   

His filthy clothes were not the only thing he needed to peel from him. He had the bandages around his throat to check, to clean and to change. He dipped his hand in the hot water of the bath and plied the clothlike gauze from his neck, unwrapping it like a scarf when he found an end and threw the blood stained thing in the bin by the sink. He was still bleeding from his injuries. He looked in the mirror and saw the bruises from the fall when he had fainted outside the cafe in Liverpool were jarring- he had not cared to apply healing balm to them at the time, it was more important to get out of the muggle hospital than to administer to his injuries. He would finally fix that after the bath.   

His eyes avoided looking at the injury on his neck and avoided looking at his face, beyond the clinical assessment of his bruising. He did not want to see the corpse he had seen in the mirror in the hospital toilets. Not again.   

He examined his wrist, the injuries he had gained from being knocked over the pier by Greyback and MacNair, landing on his arm in the wet sand. It wasn’t broken- but it was swollen and bruised. Another thing to apply healing balm to later on. He opened and closed his hand, his fingers, to check if there could be any deeper damage. As he did, his eyes lingered on the fading splinching injuries he had gained when he had escaped the Shrieking Shack a lifetime ago. He had done all he could to heal the things at the time, but his best was not good enough. His eyes lingered on his inner arm, where, once upon a time, the Dark Mark had burned his skin. It had disappeared from sight once the war had ended, of that he was grateful for.   

His body hissed as he lowered himself into the hot water of the bath, unsure if it felt pleasant or painful to be submerged in the heat. He leaned back, his body surrendering to the warmth, the uncertainty unravelling to bliss as his skin finally felt soothed and warm. He sunk lower and lower, his long black hair carried away beneath the deep water, as if he was bathing in the open sea. He opened his eyes beneath the surface, seeing his black hair sway like ink from a spilled pen; seeing the shimmer of candlelight from the ceiling above. He held his breath, wanting the security he felt beneath the hot water to last forever, to last as long as possible.   

But eventually he needed to breathe, needed air, his need forcing him to resurface and inhale. He sat back up in the bathtub, the steam lifting from his red tinged skin. He saw that the Ferryman had left things for him to clean himself with, his body, his hair, his face- he had even left a toothbrush for him, sat on the edge of the bath on a table that extended from one side of the bath to the other where the taps were. He wondered how long that spare toothbrush had been waiting for him, and whether this additional, personal touch was something the Ferryman had thought to provide him or whether Dumbledore had thought of it too. Something told him the added caring detail was something the Ferryman had taken charge of, despite knowing next to nothing about him. Dumbledore was ‘big picture’, providing Severus with the means to care for himself was too small picture for Dumbledore.   

He scrubbed his body, careful not to antagonise any of the injuries he had sustained into further fury at him. He dabbed clean soapy water at the injury on his neck, wincing at the contact. He scrubbed his face with the cleanser the Ferryman had provided, his fingers massaging the tightly wound muscles in his face that screamed at the prospect of relaxing. His frown remained in place despite the appeasement of his body. His fingertips traced his face as he massaged the cleanser, a face he had always hated and then simply ignored. He was always told by his tormenters at school that his face was too ugly for anyone to find attractive, but the men who fucked him as an adult did not need to look at his face. He rinsed the foamy cleanser from his face, his eyes prickling from the briefest of contact from the soap.   

He squeezed shampoo into the palm of his hands and scrubbed his black hair from the scalp to the ends, noting that his hair had managed to grow passed his shoulders since the end of the war. He tried to extrapolate how long that meant he had been attempting to recover at Spinners End, how long it had been since the war had ended. It seemed an improper science, to determine the passing of time with the growth of hair, so he gave up trying. He scrubbed it with the detached disdain of washing a filthy animal, finally rinsing the suds from his head until the water ran clear. Feeling the water grow cold enough for him to begin to shiver, he pulled the plug and wrapped himself back up in the towel, grabbing another one to dry his hair until it turned almost static.   

After he had dried his skin, he applied healing balm to his throat, once more pleading with magic to take the extra step necessary to finally stop his wound from bleeding a slow trickle of death. He wrapped the balm coated injury in fresh bandaging and then got dressed into his fresh clothes.   

Stepping out of the bathroom and back into the Ferryman’s living room, he felt cleaner and fresher and... healthier than he had done in a very long time. He stepped towards his holdall, unzipping it to search for a healing potion to knock back to continue on this wave of good health for as long as possible. He noticed that his reserves were running thin. This presented a problem at the back of his mind, something he will eventually need to confront but did not have the energy to solve there and then that moment. Not when a bed was available for him to lay down on- an actual bed- not the sofa he had slept on at Spinners End, not the stiff and uncomfortable thing at the muggle hospital in Liverpool. A real, lived in, bed.   

It was odd to be sleeping in another man’s bed without the precursor of sex.   

He had a sudden flashback to the attack in the woods, the sight of Greyback stroking himself on top of him made him feel sick. He didn’t want to think about it. He just wanted to sleep.  

 He carried his holdall with him to the curtained off portion of the living room that the Ferryman used for a bedroom, the curtain was soft and lacy beneath his fingertips, a bright lilac. He pulled the curtain and saw the bed was spacious, made up, with a pastel blue linen blanket to sleep under. He saw white pillows and found himself dropping the holdall to the ground to make his way towards. He noticed the stack of books surrounding the bed, but was too tired to read these titles. He noticed the plant by the window, trailing down and up along the window towards the curtain rod like an octopus tentacle. He noticed a large framed painting beside the bed, stood up beside the wall on a bedside table, overlooking the bed. When Severus lay down on the bed, it was as if he was laying down beside the painting.   

It was a richly detailed painting of an armchair, identical to the one he had sat upon in the Ferryman’s living room. The walls the same shade, the books- it was like looking into a smaller, painted version of the world inside this house above the pub. He wondered if the Ferryman had painted it himself, and why: an empty armchair was an odd choice for an artist to focus on, but he was no artist. He felt his eyelids droop as he lay on the bed, his face caressed by the soft pillow beneath him. He was moments from dozing off, moments from experiencing the freedom of sleep when a voice made all that impossible.   

“Severus! You have finally made it here.”   

Severus shot open his black eyes, believing he had finally gone mad.   

But then he saw Albus Dumbledore, standing up by the armchair in the painting, as if he had just walked into the painted living room from somewhere else.   

Severus shot up, alarmed and confused.   

“Severus, we have a few things to discuss before you go, but I just want to say how good it is to see you here, to see you alive.”   

. . .   

Severus had not known what he was walking in to when he had stepped into the Ferryman pub. He had not known if the Ferryman would be a real person, or if he was someone who was truly going to help him. He had been relieved to learn that both uncertainties were true.   

He had known that Dumbledore had a pre-existing relationship with the Ferryman, one that went back a long time; but he had not anticipated that this relationship would exist as him and the Ferryman sleeping together.   

Because that was what this was- the Ferryman’s bed positioned close to the wall, wide enough for the bedside table to prop up this portrait that overlooked the bed. Overlooked where the Ferryman would have laid down on his pillow, undoubtedly on the side of the bed closest to this portrait of Dumbledore so they could be as close as possible.   

Had he been naive to think that an old friend of Dumbledore’s would be willing to help him escape? Was the task the Ferryman had been asked to complete by Dumbledore the task that only a man who cared and loved him would be able to agree to?   

“What are you doing here?” Severus found himself asking, dumbfounded to see his old headmaster and commander in the peace of the Ferryman’s bedroom.   

Even if he was painted.   

“Your host is someone who has known me deeply and personally for many years, only a painter like this would be able to construct a portrait as detailed as this.” Dumbledore explained, “it is lucky that this second portrait exists of me, as the one that appeared in the Headmasters office at Hogwarts has been removed and hidden away.”  

“What?” Severus continued to feel like an idiot, unable to follow the strings of what was being explained to him so suddenly.   

“After the war. You were not the only one to disappear,” the painted Dumbledore peered over his glasses, “my removal from the Headmasters office was to suppress details about the war. In particular, this was to suppress details about your involvement as my soldier, as a member of the Order. To give strength to the suggestion that you had killed me in cold blood, rather than my death being a pre-agreed and pre-planned strategy. A mercy kill for an old man on his last legs.”   

“Who took it?” Severus found himself asking.   

It was odd, to be sat with the portrait of Dumbledore after so long. Odd that they would fall back into their old routine, of Dumbledore knowing everything and Severus kept in the dark.   

“Ah, a Death Eater who was on the periphery of Tom’s side in the war, who had respectability before the war that he so desperately wishes to hold on to. Albert Runcorn.” Dumbledore’s portrait sighed exasperatedly, “he managed to convince the Ministry that his actions against muggle borns were directly due to the Imperius Curse that was placed upon him- a lie, as you know. As only you have the ability to speak about. As I have the ability to speak about. Thus, explaining my Headmaster’s Office portrait being hidden away in Runcorn’s ministry office.”  

Severus watched the man pace the border of the portrait, much like he had done during their war-time plans, alone at Hogwarts.   

“He is not content with silencing me by hiding my portrait, Severus. He suspected you were not dead, figured this out with a bit of light investigative work. He is desperate to have any and all threats to his security eliminated. You are in danger, Severus.”   

“I know. I have had people following me.” Severus admitted.   

“Runcorn has MacNair and Greyback in his pocket,” Dumbledore nodded, before finally sharing, “and, this may come as a shock to you, but Sirius Black has been roped into this as well.”  

Dumbledore paused to let Severus absorb the information that Sirius Black was alive, finding his limited reaction a surprise.   

“You already know this?” Dumbledore checked.   

“I... saw a black dog.” Severus recalled, the frightening shock of the familiar dog appearing beneath the pier in Liverpool when he had been attacked.   

“Sirius has appeared to have returned from the Veil after the war has ended and his feelings of grief and ‘uselessness’ during the war, as he would say, are being manipulated by Runcorn. He did not seek Runcorn out to agree to hunt you down, Severus, he was invited to discuss his experiences in the Veil for academic purposes- an interview that was short lived because he has no memories of the experience. He has been tasked with bringing you back to England, to the Ministry, where you will supposedly be charged and go to trial. Sirius does not know that this is a lie. If he manages to take you to the Ministry, Runcorn will have you killed. He has sent MacNair and Greyback to do this task in the wild, but has Sirius on the task in case MacNair and Greyback do not give this task its supposed diligence. He has attempted to cover all his bases.”   

Severus had just wanted to sleep and now he was having this information shoved into his head. His exhaustion must have looked obvious because the painted Dumbledore changed his tune.   

“I apologise for offloading all this on to you now,” he spoke, “but I am aware that my time with you is short. I wanted to make sure you had all the information necessary to arm yourself, to defend yourself, as you make your way to Drobhna where you will be able to leave all this behind. I have been weighed down by concern for weeks, that you had died at the Battle of Hogwarts, or that you had lived only to be hunted down by Runcorn’s minions. I have spent days now, since Sirius appeared in Runcorn’s office, anxiously anticipating the message that Runcorn would receive to say that you have been captured, or killed. I am just... relieved that you are here, alive. That you are so close to the peace that we planned-”  

“You meant it.” Severus found himself needing to say, to have Dumbledore affirm.  

“Yes, Severus. I appreciate that my actions may not have allowed you to believe me, but I meant for you to live a life after the war.” The painted Dumbledore spoke firmly, honestly.   

Severus found absolution in these painted words, a lifting of a turmoil that had weighed upon his soul since the very moment he had killed Dumbledore: that he was unforgivable, that he was evil, that he deserved the torment he had lived under all this time since.   

He could no longer stay awake.   

The weight lifted from him, he fell.  

Like a child falling into dreams, he fell asleep in the Ferryman’s bed, watched over by the portrait he had never known existed. There was so much he had not known about his old Headmaster; the truth of his plans for Severus was merely one of many unknowns.   

. . .   

A voice stirred him, a hand shook him by the shoulder.   

Severus scrunched his face in annoyance, at having his first good sleep in years broken prematurely. He opened his eyes, kind brown eyes peering down at him from above; painted blue eyes focusing on him from the side of the bed.   

“It’s time to go.” The Ferryman spoke gently, standing himself up straight now he saw the man was awake.   

Severus sat up, rubbing his face of any of the sleep that lingered. He wondered how long it had been since he fell asleep, how long he had slept for. He noticed Dumbledore’s eyes still on him, watching him carefully.   

“I saw you were fast asleep when I got back in from the marina,” the Ferryman carried on talking, pulling the lilac curtain that divided the bedroom from the rest of the house, walking to a small two seat dinning table and picking up a neatly folded stack of clean clothes. He handed them to Severus, who promptly placed the clothes back into the holdall to wear for another day.   

“It’s time to go.” The Ferryman announced, “if you are sure this is what you want.”   

“There will be no easy way to return,” the painted Dumbledore spoke, “if you are sure that Drobhna is the best place for you, it is waiting.”   

“It is.” Severus confirmed, putting his coat on, standing into his shoes that had been stacked by the foot of the bed.   

“Right, keep your wand on you,” the Ferryman spoke, his eyes darting to Dumbledore’s painting, “I hear there are people tailing you, so be prepared for anything till we get to the marina. My narrowboat is waiting, ready to go. Once we are out in the open water, I can begin to generate the portkey feature embedded into the boat. I’ve had lots of practice, so don’t worry about the trip.”  

He rambled slightly, as if the task ahead was making him slightly apprehensive.   

“It can be a tad bumpier than a traditional portkey, as a warning to you, Severus.” The painted Dumbledore added with a smile.   

“I’ll bear both suggestions in mind.” Severus agreed, his wand tucked up his coat sleeve, held in his hand.   

“Thank you, Dumbledore, Ferryman.” Severus found himself saying, “you did not have to do this for me.”   

He picked his holdall up, signalling his readiness to go.  

To leave his old life behind.  

He had been preparing for this; he had been working for this for the last few days since leaving Spinners End.   

“No, thank you, Severus. For what you did for me.” The painted Dumbledore spoke firmly.   

The Ferryman nodded, solemnly.   

There did not appear to be any hard feelings towards him, Severus determined, his eyes following both men, divided by paint and reality.   

“Right, back soon, Albus.” The Ferryman announced, kissing his index and middle finger and pressing his kiss to the painting.   

. . .   

The walk outside the pub was a quiet one, as if both men had decided they needed to keep their trek silent to minimise any attention that could fall on them. Severus did not mind the quiet, he had lived it for so long now. He suspected the Ferryman was struggling a little to keep his thoughts in.   

He focused on his surroundings as he followed the man out the back of the pub, passed the garden gate and towards the sea that loomed out before them. As close as the pub was to the marina, the Ferryman’s narrowboat was evidently moored as secluded as possible. Severus wondered if this was the best choice to make, whether distance was better than a quick exit.   

He took in the nature, dipped in the silver shimmer of early morning dew.   

Black birds hovered in the air above, graceful and serene.   

“Just down here.” The Ferryman announced quietly, pointing down a small hill.  

And then spells and hexes began to rain down upon him and the Ferryman.  

The black birds scattered away.  

. .  .  

“Go to the narrowboat,” Severus instructed, shielding and deflecting the attacks, attempting to work out where the attack was coming from, “I’ll cover you, get everything you need to do to get ready to go and call me when it’s time.”   

The Ferryman nodded, shielding himself the best he could with his wand and hand, making his way to the narrowboat just down below.   

Severus saw where the attacks were raining down on him from- MacNair and Greyback, spread out across the roofs of bungalow houses that lined the approaching shore and marinas of Lorne. He was lucky he had healed himself as best as he could when he arrived at the Ferryman pub, he was lucky he had slept. He was in the best position to defend himself against the onslaught that rained down upon him, the pair desperate to keep him from escaping.   

From his position on the ground, he could see Greyback’s face was half bandaged up from the broken bottle he had struck him with in the wood. Having one less eye to work with was certainly reducing his depth perception, Severus smirked to himself, as he found he hardly needed to concern himself with Greyback’s attempts at magic towards him. MacNair was a separate issue- whilst he lacked grace, he was brutal.   

He saw Greyback grow frustrated with the absence of accuracy his injuries had placed on him. He sprung off the roof, rattling the tiles with him that fell and smashed to the floor as he landed. His separation from MacNair caused an argument between the two men, who evidently had a plan of attack that Greyback was not complying with. Greyback was tired of following orders.   

He glared down at him, his menacing form full of anger and rage. Severus backed up from the aggressor, willing the Ferryman to hurry up and finish doing whatever he needed to do for them to get the fuck out of this situation before it grew dire.   

“An eye for an eye, Snape.” Greyback sneered, “that’s what I’ll take from you first. And then, who knows.”   

Severus knocked him back with a deflecting spell, counting down the seconds before-  

MacNair yelled out an explicit swear, Severus jolted, his attention gripped by the noise.   

MacNair, duelling with Sirius Black.  

Severus’ morning just got worse.  

And then he found himself flat on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs as Greyback pressed his booted foot into his stomach, his ribs, finally pressing against his throat. Crushing him.   

Greyback pulled something from his coat pocket, flicking it open, revealing a sharp blade.   

“Left or right?” Greyback laughed.   

Severus couldn’t answer even if he wanted to, his hands focused on trying to move Greyback’s bulk from his throat.   

And then a shocking bolt struck Greyback from behind, sending him spiralling down the banks towards the marina, landing along the docks.  

A voice called from the air.   

“Severus? Severus! It’s time!”   

Severus forced his body from the floor, thankful that the Ferryman had a sense for good timing. He rushed towards the marina where the narrowboat was waiting, engine already activated.   

He felt he was still being chased. He did not look back, did not dare to. He saw the narrowboat begin to move and he leapt aboard, the distance between the boat and the docks growing each second.   

“Thank you for knocking Greyback out.” Severus forced his words through his crushed throat, feeling the blood from his reopened wound soak into the bandaging.   

“I didn’t do anything- I’ve been getting this thing going.” The Ferryman confessed.  

Severus looked around, confused as to who had saved his life just now-  

And saw Sirius Black rushing towards the docks, along the pier, as if he could catch up with the narrowboat before the Portkey was finalised.   

He saw MacNair pushing himself from the ground, clearly knocked down by Black at one point. He heard the man shout out to Black, his wand drawn and ready to strike,   

“We’re on the same fucking side you idiot!”   

Severus watched Black running, turning at the man’s words. A sense of powerlessness overcome Severus as he watched MacNair strike at Black with a debilitating hex, causing him to freeze up as he was hit at the end of the pier, falling face down into the still water.   

Severus waited for him to move, to turn himself over, to get out of the water-  

“Hold on to something, Severus, we’re off in thirty seconds.” The Ferryman called out, gripping hold of the steering wheel.   

Severus was faced with an impossible decision that did not feel so impossible, when it came down to the basics of his morality.   

His role during the war was to gather information for Dumbledore, but along the way, he had picked up his own mantra: the preservation of life.   

He had seen people die, the powerlessness he felt at watching this happen lingered within him like ghosts.   

Only the ones he could not save.  

He could not allow this to happen- Black could be saved.   

His hate for him did not exceed his desire to enter Drobhna a man with a clear conscience, a man who had experienced absolution, the knowledge that everything he had done in the war was everything he could do to achieve peace.   

Letting a man die would destroy that newfound peace within his identity.   

He was not going to die a guilty man in Drobhna because of a man like Black.  

He sprung into action, grabing the lifebuoy from the narrow boat railing, charming it with his wand to land and wrap around Black’s floating body.   

“What are you doing?!” The Ferryman exploded, “we’re out of here in ten seconds!”  

Severus reeled him in like a fish, like the heaviest catch of the day.   

He pulled him on board the narrowboat, dragging him quickly down into the inside of the boat as the Ferryman shouted, a final reminder, to hold on to something. Severus gripped hold of a handrail by the doorway to the lower deck, attempting to fasten Black to the same handrail by the rope of the lifebuoy, but needing to make do by wrapping his arm around his chest like a safety belt.  

And then the familiar sensation of being hooked and yanked away from the tapestry of his current surroundings happened.  

And Lorne was a thing of the past.   

. . . .  

Chapter Text

The roar of the sea crashed against the side of the narrowboat.   

Severus found himself splashed with the cold salty water that shot through the open circular window from the outdoors.   

He heard a gasping sound. The shock he felt at the roughness of the Portboat rocking and the freezing chill of the sea soaking through his clothes made it almost impossible to link the gasping sound to his own body.   

The boat rocked beneath him and a voice shouted down from the deck.  

“You alright down there?!” The Ferryman called out, loud above the waves.   

A crack of thunder broke the sky.  

Severus looked around the lower deck of the narrow boat, the inside in a total disarray of scattered paper. A broken mug lay chipped on the floor, having forgotten to be charmed down in place with the other mugs inside the cupboard. The shock of the transportation and the escape back at Lorne began to wear off from him, leaving his body rampaging with adrenaline- panic and excitement battled within him.  

He was here .  

It was all real- Drobhna was no longer a distant promise land, a mirage in the far distance for him to forever run towards.   

It was the sum of all proof for Severus to finally believe that he had done the right things in the war. That he was not a cold-blooded murderer. That he was not a Death Eater- he may have had the Mark etched on his flesh at one moment in his life, but the sum of his life after was for Dumbledore, for Lily’s memory, all to end the war once and for all.   

And he had done it.   

He thought... in his quietest, most private wishes, he had thought that if he had finally arrived in Drobhna he would feel the last vestiges of his old life and history fall from him, and he would become someone else. Free of the past once and for all.   

Perhaps he had been naive, perhaps he had been overly ambitious concerning what this exile would become of him. What it offered.   

And what he would do to have it.  

Because he could not kill for it- even if it was a passive kill, watching another man die when he could live.  

His eyes sunk to the man propped up against his lap and chest like a terrible anchor and he felt his exile no longer meant what he had hoped it would mean.  

Because Sirius Black was also here.   

Severus had held on to the unconscious wet body, tightly, as if trying to keep him from further harm.  

He had pulled him on board the narrowboat to prevent him from being murdered by Greyback and MacNair.   

Although, perhaps he had acted too quickly, Severus thought, would they have killed him- seeing as they were working together?   

They were on the same side - as MacNair had yelled out to Black after Black had struck him.   

He had made a major mistake dragging Black onto the narrow boat. He should have just shoved him back onto land- because he was never in any real danger, was he?   

Sirius Black was here in Drobhna too- because Severus was a weak man. Because he was incapable of sacrificing a life for his own benefit, even a life that had tormented him for so long. Even a life that would have thrown him to the wolves- quite fucking literally, had their positions been switched.   

Sirius Black was here because he was not a cold-hearted killer.   

That much had been demonstrated and proven, time and time over- and Severus felt sick with the weakness within him, so instinctual, so detrimental to his own safety. It was sabotage and he was the saboteur.  

He shoved the heavy lump of muscled man from his lap forcefully, the rope of the buoy keeping Black in place as Severus stood himself up. He looked down at him, for one brief moment, seeing he was breathing, that he would, unfortunately, be fine once he eventually did wake up.   

He was determined not to make Black be his problem.   

Because, obviously, Black would go back to Lorne with the Ferryman.   

He wouldn’t even know he had travelled to Drobhna. He was passed out.  

Black will not be his problem.  

Black will not ruin his peace- not this time.    

“ Severus ?!” The Ferryman yelled again, steering the narrowboat as best he could through the storm to land.   

Severus poked his head above deck, the wind rushing through his hair like a long-fingered hand. He looked out to what was his new home, the approaching stretch of land that the Ferryman steered his narrowboat towards. He left Black below deck, physically and mentally, he left the man down below: out of sight, out of mind. Even if it wasn’t true, he tried for the sake of his own peace: out of sight, out of mind.    

The marina welcomed them like a pair of arms held wide open for him.   

“So, what do you think of Drobhna then, Severus?” The Ferryman beamed, his big toothed mouth wide on his face.   

The island was full of greenery, trees, hills, a tiny village could be seen near the shoreline, near the marina where the narrowboat was pulling in towards.   

“It certainly looks beautiful, from here.” Severus admitted, and, even with the dangerous man laid out on the floor beneath them, he still saw the beauty before him.   

How could he not? It appeared to be a quiet place, a calm place. Even the small village that inevitably hosted other human beings- they seemed so small and disconnected from where he would go and that was enough for him.   

“We’ll be mooring in a few minutes.” The Ferryman added, “I’ll apparate you to your new home once we’ve docked. I made sure it was all stocked up, ready to go. But you’ll need to get fresh food at the village, the one just over there-” he pointed ahead to the village Severus had spotted moments before, “-is closest. The village is made up of a combination of people who have lived here for generations and newer people who just want a bit of quiet. You have to try really hard to get any international newspapers round here, so no one will have picked up a Daily Prophet and recognise you from it.”  

Severus felt reassured, his anonymity within his new home secured.   

He stood quietly beside the Ferryman, watching Drobhna come closer and closer, until finally they reached the marina. The breeze blew comfortingly across his face despite the roughness of the rocking wind, his eyes closing against the touch.   

The Ferryman jumped off the narrowboat and onto the pier, tying the narrowboat to a mooring pole with thick rope. He jumped back on board, switching the engine off, fiddling with a few of the dials to lock the portkey feature for his return journey when he and Severus had parted ways.   

Severus used his wand to summon his holdall from inside the narrowboat and stepped onto the wet wooden planks that made up the short pier where the Ferryman had moored his boat.  

 Now that he was off the boat, excitement coursed through him, distracting him from his aches and permanent weaknesses. His added injuries from the confrontation he had gained during his escape were numb and stiff at this point.  

His hand instinctively rose to his throat, his fingertips brushing what was obviously bruising from Greyback’s boot crushing down on his neck, bruising he would feel later on but not right now. He looked down at his clothes, seeing the mud from the banks he had landed upon when Greyback had knocked him down. He felt filthy but tolerated it, knowing he could change and rest and recuperate as best as he could as soon as he finally made it to the house Dumbledore and the Ferryman had set up for him.   

When he was finally home .  

Severus followed the shorter man as he stepped confidently across the pier. The waves bashed the wooden planks below, the cold waves revitalising despite the chill on the salty air. He stopped suddenly in his tracks, turning to face Severus with a grin.  

“I’m sure you are eager to settle in as soon as possible,” the Ferryman said, his eyes lighting up with the excitement of the plan finally working out, of Severus getting the peace he knew he had hard earned, “come on, hold on to my arm, I’ll get you there quicker.”   

Severus took the man’s arm, gripping hold as the Ferryman rushed him to his new home by apparation.    

. . .  

His new home was a bungalow cottage, the walls covered in a crawling green ivy leaf, the thatched style roof stitched with green moss between the tiles. Severus observed the outside of what was his new home, noting the empty soil for him to plant and grow all the things he had never been able to grow in Spinners End or in his quarters at Hogwarts. A rush of excitement existed within him, at the thought of planting small tiny seeds in the land around his bungalow- being able to watch the things grow.   

He was not capable of anything more physically demanding than that, he knew. Some days he was only capable of sitting still, but the idea of sitting still in this garden was perfection compared to sitting still in the desolate slums of Spinners End.    

It was all he wanted.   

He watched the Ferryman kneel down, lifting a plant pot to retrieve a key to open the front door. The door unlocked with a click and the Ferryman pushed open the door, revealing a hallway where hooks existed to hang up coats and scarves in rain and winter. A place to leave his boots to prevent the traipsing in of mud and dirty across wooden floors. The Ferryman used his wand to light up the candles throughout the single floored home, through the tunnels that led into a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom.  

He saw a room- a spare room, a room where a cauldron had been left, with shelves filled with jars of ingredients, waiting for him to use. He pictured himself, finally having enough energy to brew potions. Possibly as a means to make a living in Drobhna. He went for a look, by himself, leaving the Ferryman to do the small tasks he was doing, whatever that happened to be. He surveyed the jars, the tiny worlds within the glass walls, a sense of... peace appearing within him, something he felt reluctant to let settle. As if he expected the ground to eat the saps up, devouring him to despair once again.   

He made his way to the window that oversaw the land around his new home. The hills in the distance offered him a sense of protection, a shielding, from the outside world. The greenery of the grass, the wildflowers, the trees- he felt the fresh air fill his lungs, even from within his new home.   

A passing of forms graced across the window, causing Severus to narrow his eyes and stare, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.  

He turned sharply, seeing the Ferryman cross the hall, something hovering before him, just out of sight. He saw the Ferryman walk towards a room, what Severus saw to be his bedroom- a double bed positioned in the middle of the room, a window wide and open above the bed showing a great and green array of hills and trees.   

But a horrific sight weighed his eyes down to the bed.   

The Ferryman lowered the unconscious form of Sirius Black on top of the bedding, his presence sinking into the duvet. His wet clothes had been charmed dry. He watched, a look of shock and confusion etched into his eyes as he saw the Ferryman step outside his bedroom shiftily.   

Leaving Black behind.   

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Severus asked, leaving no room for debate: the Ferryman was certainly forgetting something dire behind in his bedroom.   

“Evidently, I am.” The Ferryman admitted, confusion filling his eyes as he tried to guess what he was doing wrong.  

“Why are you putting him on my bed?” Severus seethed.   

“He’s injured, he needs a kip.” The Ferryman spoke evasively.  

“Black has been tracking me down. Dumbledore has informed me that Black is trying to bring me back to the Ministry to have me killed .” Severus summed up, a building hysteria rising within him, as if trying to ensure there was no room for confusion between him and the Ferryman concerning Black, “Why, then, are you bringing Black into my new home?”   

“He’s got to go with you. I’m not taking him back.” The Ferryman stated, simply.    

“That simply cannot happen.” Severus narrowed his eyes, a dangerous flash of fear submerged in disbelief.   

“Listen, my task was to bring you to Drobhna. To give you safe passage out of the UK.” The Ferryman reeled off, “and I have done so. I am not bringing this man back- whoever he is, he is a danger to my safety. You made the choice to bring him on board-”  

“He was going to drown -” Severus rebutted, arguing against any alternative reason for him to save Sirius Black’s life.  

“My role is over in all this.” The Ferryman insisted, raising his hands out to the house the two men stood within, signalling to Severus all that he had done to get him out of the country, “look, this is an island. It has a marina. Boats come and go... This man can buy a ticket somewhere else and go home, he can stay in the village, but right now, he’s unconscious and you seem to know him. Sort him out and go on with your life.”  

“ He’s been hunting me down !” Severus hissed, “how am I supposed to go on with my life with him here?! All this hard work would be for nothing !”  

“Then why did you drag him on board?” The Ferryman yelled back, becoming angry with Severus and his pushbacks, “look, I am not arguing with you. You’ve done your job. I’ve done my job. I cannot bring him back- I am not having anyone know that I am linked to this escape of yours. Anyone who is after you would then be after me and I’m not dying for you, Severus. I am grateful for all that you have done in the war, I am thankful that you gave Albus a merciful death. But I don’t know you- Albus knew you. I want to go back to my home, with Albus, my small part in this war and its aftermath is done.”  

Severus felt the panic rise in his chest. That he would have to temporarily exist on this island with Black of all people was monstrous to him.   

How was this exile?   

How was this peace, when he was sharing a confined space with an enemy?   

Before he could argue, the Ferryman gave him a final nod goodbye, disapparating back to the marina and home to Lorne on his narrowboat.   

. . .  

The bungalow was silent when the Ferryman left.   

Silent, apart from the steady rise and fall of breathing from the unwanted man in his bed.   

Silent, apart from the wind rushing through the trees outside his home.   

Severus stared at Black, like a rabbit would peek at a sleeping dog to assess the potential of passing through a field uneaten. Unharmed. He backed out of the bedroom, slowly, the creak of the floorboards causing his chest to tighten and his body to freeze, before he finally did snap free. He turned down the hallway, finding the kitchen. Fear and anger mixed within him, the humiliation of having this man in his house and feeling powerless to remove him. He was overwhelmed by the weakness that dragged him downward to the spindleback oak dinning chair, his eyes over stimulated by all the new sights he needed to take in to make his new home a familiar place.   

He could not absorb the view, he could not make this place his own: not whilst that man was here too. His head sunk into his hands, he leant against the oak table with the weight of the last few days pressing heavily into his shoulder blades, his back, like an unbearable backpack, a lifetime of baggage he thought he had left behind in England. But it followed him. Or, more accurately, he had carried it with him as if he didn’t know how to live without it.   

And that was the truth: he didn’t know how to live without the past.   

He just had not thought he would be living so closely with the past.   

He lifted his head from his hand slightly, his eyes landing on a packet of tobacco that had been left behind on the kitchen countertop beside the hob kettle and the tree of mugs. It was like his eyes were meant to land on this packet. It had been so long since he had smoked a cigarette; the last year of the war had been a fog of grey clouds in Dumbledore’s office. He forced himself to stand and grab the packet, finding the accompanying filters and papers beside the packet. He sat back down at the table and rolled a single cigarette, his hands shaking with the tremors that hit him when he fell into these energy pits.   

He knew he should have just taken a healing potion- he knew he needed one. But it all felt so pointless. Since Nagini’s attack, he had stepped across each day to the next, one healing potion from the next, all in the hopes that he would finally have the energy and capacity to reach Drobhna. But now he was here and he was no better. What was the point in healing potions that never really healed? He held the cigarette to his lips instead, inhaling the nicotine that brought more relief to him in that moment than any potion he could brew.  

And that made him so sad.   

A sudden flooding of misery that spoiled his fresh start, the recognition that he had not been able to heal himself. That he was to suffer this ache for the rest of his days. Perhaps if he had brewed a better antidote against the venom in Nagini’s bite, perhaps if he had brewed a stronger healing potion.   

It would have still been all for nought, with his enemy still lying in bed down the hallway.   

He was still going to be executed by the man.  

It had all been for nothing.   

. . .  

“...You forgetting something?”  

Sirius felt his head spin as sense began to trickle back down into him.   

“My task was to bring you here... You made a choice to bring him.”  

Where was he? He was laying down- that much he could work out. But laying down didn’t bode well, considering the last thing he remembered was fighting. Running.   

“He was going to drown!”  

He was running towards the pier, the marina, trying to catch Snape before he got away for ever, before he disappeared anywhere in the world- wherever he was running to, he had needed to run with him-  

“It’s done.”  

He woke up quickly, his head rushing with confusion and disorientation as he had no idea where he was or what was going on. He was lying in a bed, in a small room with a window that faced wild flowers and trees. It was ground floor. It felt odd to be laying so close to the ground, to see the trees from this angle when his beds in the past had always been up a flight of stairs at least. He felt small.   

The room was small. It was a room that comprised of a bed, a wardrobe and bedside table. A few shelves were placed up, a few books had been stacked but not much else. The room was small and bare. Unlived in, Sirius realised.   

He sat up and forced himself up from the bed, spinning as he continued to try and place himself. Mentally and physically he was lost and confused. He stepped outside the bedroom and found that the room was positioned along a hallway. He followed the path and saw that he passed a bathroom with a white tub, a separated room for the toilet. He found a room that contained a cauldron and shelves full with jars, lined with jars filled with ingredients for potions so complex Sirius would struggle to follow.   

Snape is here  

This room was the only clue to his position in the world right there and then.   

Where there was a cauldron, above every and all other objects that could have been placed in this bungalow, things like photographs or paintings or knickknacks, he knew that Snape must be near. This cauldron was a priority above the sentimentality and above comfort. Because these were not the things Snape prioritised- a cauldron had a use, a task.   

He passed a living room, seeing the room contained a sofa and an armchair, a coffee table and a bookcase that had been stacked with more books. The living room was near where the front door was and Sirius considered running, considered making a break for it, getting away from this house. He did not understand why, or where this flee instinct appeared from but it enraged him that it existed within him. That its presence within him suggested he had a jot of cowardice within him. That there was something within this bungalow that gave him cause to be afraid.  

He looked to the side of the front door and saw that a dark coat was hung up on a hook.   

He marched from the coat hook, a surge of thunderous anger within him that misdirected him into the kitchen.   

A slight man sat dressed in black, his black headed hair bent forward, within his hands, leaning on the table top.   

The man jolted upward, spinning to face him, alarm etched into his features as permanently as scarring.   

Sirius did not give him an edge, did not give him a single second to speak or to attack him.   

He charged at him, flashes of flushed rage searing through his grey eyes as he flung Snape to the kitchen wall, using his arms and body to trap him against the blue painted wall.   

Snape did not say a word and the lack of reaction only caused more anger within Sirius. His eyes were older than his years, tinged with a lifetime of choices that had led to this moment.   

His shoulders were thin balls of bone and sockets, his body betrayed a weakness that neither Sirius not Snape could deny.   

Sirius had imagined being this close to Snape, a wish that transcended the agreement of his task set by Runcorn. A wish to be as close to this man as he was right now, in this kitchen, in this unknown place- to do what?  

A burning bubble of frantic confusion and uncertainty- Sirius saw a test, a goading, in Snape’s silence. As if Snape sensed a reluctance, a stupid impotence that prevented him from action.   

He realised he had not left Snape’s black eyes, had not unlinked from his exhaustion- and neither had he.   

“I’m taking you back to England.” Sirius finally spoke, finally channelling his anger and confusion into streamlined focus, “a murderous Death Eater like you will never be able to escape justice. I get to be the one that caught you-”  

“‘Caught me’?” Snape repeated, an incredulous smirk splitting his face despite the danger and the tension of the situation, “is that what you will tell your master? That you ‘ caught’ me? Is that how you interpret getting struck down in friendly fire by MacNair, falling facedown in the water to drown-?”  

Sirius flung him from the wall and pressed him against the dining table, pressing him down until his face was shoved against the smoothness of the surface. He felt Snape struggle beneath him, his body pliable to Sirius like a doll with the weakness that hung heavily upon him. He leaned over him.   

“You don’t get to speak-” Sirius hissed.  

“You would be dead if it wasn’t for me.” Snape coughed, struggling to breathe with the pressure of the man against him.  

“- I don’t care what cold-blooded murdering Death Eaters have to say, Snape. Save it.”  

“You are actively working with cold-blooded murdering Death Eaters. For cold-blooded murdering Death Eaters.” Snape fought back, “at least I have the excuse of having been a spy that justified my contact with those people. What’s your excuse, Black?”  

“I am not having a morality lesson from you!” Black roared, “you, of all people, you! A murdering Death Eater!”  

Sirius used his wand and bound him, bound his arms and legs together and threw him off the table, watching him fall to the floor as he lost his balance.   

His black eyes fixed on him, anticipating attack, violence, from him.   

He had no means to defend himself and Sirius knew it.   

But Snape was never one to keep quiet in his presence, was never one to meekly accept his fate.  

“The fact that I am here , that I was able to get here, that this place exists for me, means that you are wrong.” Snape spoke, a power within his words, an authority and an energy that would not be extinguished despite Sirius’ presence and his physical prowess over him.   

For a moment, Sirius was stuck in his tracks, peering down at the man on the floor, edged away from his feet.   

“This place exists because Dumbledore made it happen for me. From my fake passport, to the cauldron in the spare room of this cottage, he made it happen. He made it happen after he asked me to kill him, after the things I had to do during the war, to make the war end in the Order’s victory. Even after the war, his portrait- a second portrait- at Lorne, told me what has been happening- he warned me of what you were doing. That you are working with Death Eaters to have me be taken to Runcorn to be killed-”  

“To stand trial!” Sirius insisted.  

“Don’t be a fool, Black, you know better than anyone that there will be no trial.” Snape seethed back.   

Sirius flung his hands to his own face, stringing the palms down his cheeks as the tension and the uncertainty, as the mess, strung through his muscles in unbearable tightness.   

He felt sick at himself. Sick, revolted, by the association he had with MacNair and Greyback- even the suggestion of association was disgusting. He did not want to accept that Runcorn had other alternative aspirations for his involvement.   

“I am not a cold-blooded killer and I am not a Death Eater.” Snape reiterated, eyes glazed over, as if speaking to himself, as if repeating a mantra that held him together, “I have worked an entire lifetime to fix the wrongs that I have committed. I have done everything I could to end the war in victory and you will never be able to take that away from me, Black.   

You won’t take ‘morality lessons’ from me ? You have no right to think you are a better person than me- you, who has done nothing in this war, you didn’t even die in the war! I will take nothing from a useless absent fuck like you!”   

Sirius held his breath, held his body stiff, as each word shot up at him like bullets.  

“You couldn’t even catch me, Black. Remember that.” Snape sneered, revelling in the victory he had decided to take from him, to spoil, “when you tell people the, albeit short, stories of your role in the war, make sure you remember to regale the tale of how you were knocked down in friendly fire by your Death Eater comrade, falling face down into the sea. That I saved you from drowning because, as ever, my role in the entire war was in the preservation of life and not cold-blooded murder.”  

Sirius pushed the table over, flipping it with a crash against the lino flooring. He saw little shreds of tobacco fly from a packet, scattering across the floor. He saw a flash of fear on Snape’s face at the violence, just a small one, and it gave him a small flicker of control- a satiation of his need to have some control over the situation he had so terribly lost.   

He needed to get some air.   

Needed to get a hold of himself- take charge.   

Find a way back to England, with Snape in tow.   

He saw the door to the back garden, saw through the window that the back garden hardly had a border- there was no gates, no fences to climb over.   

He stepped over Snape’s bound form, the slightness of his jagged bones poking through his shirt collar. He ignored the bruising, the tremoring, all the things that had been obscured by the bolster and the antagonism Snape had thrown at him. He forced his way through the garden door, kicking it open when the handle would not comply quick enough.   

He marched through the grass, his sense of direction leading him towards the shoreline, the sound of sea waves quietly caressing the lands edge in the distance.   

He just needed to get the fuck away from Snape, that poisonous, insidious, slippery snake of a man. To get some distance- the irony not lost on him that he had spent the best part of the last week chasing him down.   

He needed space from how the confrontation had concluded, the bitterness weighing him down inside, the biting words that latched on to his skin like barbed thorns. Little beads of sweat pilling at his forehead, despite the cold wind, the poison of the truth Snape spoke making him feel sick.   

A tremor existed within him too, Sirius shuddered, and he found himself sniffing the island for the nearest pub rather than the closest ticket office back to England.   

. . .   

Severus was sure that his heart was going to crack beyond the remits of his chest, punch free of his ribs. It would be the only part of him that had a chance of freeing itself in this instance, Severus sensed. The bindings around his wrists behind his back, tied tightly around his knees, made it impossible for him to move. He was angry that Black had stampeded his way through his new life- but he only had himself to blame. Black had acted as he had predicted- up until the point he had run off and left him on the floor. He had expected to be dragged off back to England right then. Black not doing so was a question mark to him.   

He struggled against the binds, frustration and annoyance humming through his body that grew weaker and weaker.  

Intermixed with the anger, the confusion, the self-blame for his predicament with Black, was a fluster. An embarrassing tinge to the situation he faced himself in; the shock of having another man throwing him around, pressing against him. Someone, he admitted with ease, who was better looking than Greyback. Even if both men wanted him dead, he knew which body he preferred leaning over him, although it was a close content to the bottom of the barrel, his anger and his hatred repulsing him from giving in to what his body sought.  

It was hardly a compliment to Black, Severus reminded himself, simply a comparison that he was not a monstrous predator like Greyback.   

That was not a compliment to Black, he repeated.   

He tugged at the bindings around his wrists, the futility of the action becoming clearer after each passing minute he was still tied up. He was only making himself weaker. He was tiring himself and he was already so very tired.   

His body bruised like an old peach as it responded to the force he had just experienced, on top of the wounds he had sustained escaping Lorne.   

On top of the wounds from the Battle of Hogwarts.   

His body and mind was one thatched tapestry of aches, a pain so embedded within him he thought his body would fall apart if he was to experience a respite of peace inside him.   

He had smoked a cigarette instead of taking the healing potions that no longer healed him.   

He only wished he could smoke another before his world would turn black and quiet with the closing of his eyes.   

He had not died in the Shrieking Shack.  

He had not died in Spinners End.  

He had not lied in Liverpool.  

He had not died in Lorne.  

But here, here he would accept death if it came for him. Here he would go if the path opened for him.   

He would not go back to England, because he knew without a doubt that a painful purposeful death awaited him there.  

One he did not accept.  

And he was not going to spend the last of his living energy giving Black what he wanted.   

. . .  

Sirius pushed his way through the barley field, the wildflowers and the trees.  

The wind a companion against his ears, his hair.   

He was affronted by the entire ordeal of the last ... however much time had passed since he had left Lorne. Left Liverpool. Left Cokeworth. He was exhausted. He was mentally drained, rather than celebratory, at having found Snape.   

The man’s words stung him, a prickling against his skin that made him clammy and uncomfortable.   

He felt embarrassed- recalling how he had pinned the man against the wall, had flung him against the top of the table, pressing into him- keeping him in place, stopping him from running. He did not ... understand why he had done this, he should have just bound him from the start- but it felt necessary, felt unavoidable, that he would collide so physically against him.   

He had needed to touch him.   

The why was muddy.   

He walked into the village, finally reaching what counted for civilization in this part of the world. He found a tea shop, a post box, a shop that sold flotsam and jetsam from the surrounding sea. The people in this town were an odd bunch, wrapped up in shawls and blankets against the roaring wind. Wizarding robes told him that this was an exclusively magical community, which certainly made life simpler as it avoided the statute of secrecy. If the statute even covered this place. He found a small grocery store, wondering if they sold alcohol and how much it cost.   

The inside of the shop was lined with tins and packets, fresh produce was stacked in green tote boxes. A part of him was hungry, grabbing a crusty roll to eat as he searched. He had not seen a bottle of wine, or beer, or spirits at all. He made his way to the counter and asked the shop keeper.  

“Are you new around these parts?” the man curled his lips, “the embargo on drink has been around for a few days now, so you’re either new or been sleeping off your last hangover for a while.”  

“How long-?” Sirius spluttered.  

“As if I know.” The shop keeper interrupted, “I’ve had it up to here with you drunks knocking around asking me like I should know!”  

Sirius paid for his roll and left the old brickworked shop, a sense of shock and sickness seeping through his skin.   

He had to get off this island, as quickly as possible.   

Finding what he presumed to be a centre that documented the comings and goings of the boats to the island, he stepped inside and found a reception desk occupied by an old woman reading an edition of Witches Weekly in a different language. Sirius approached her and asked if she knew the next boat leaving for England directly, or to Lorne- he would accept a stopover in Lorne if it meant he could leave this island soon.   

“We don’t get many people coming and going from Drobhna,” the old woman explained, apologetically, “there is a delivery ship that arrives each month, but you’ve just missed it. It won’t be back until next month.”  

“Are you actually telling me that I cannot leave this place until next month - at the earliest?” Sirius balked, furiously.  

The old woman hardened against his outburst. She tapped a sign beside her, a sign that reprimanded Sirius by telling him that abuse towards staff was not tolerated. She tapped another sign below the warning sign, a poster with the prices of tickets for the boat that would be arriving and departing in a months’ time.   

“I’ll take two tickets then.” Sirius conceded, handing the woman magic money from his pocket.   

Although, it all seemed so pointless: he felt as trapped here, on Drobhna, as he had in Grimmauld Place- worse still, as there was nothing to drink on this entire fucking island, whereas Grimmauld Place had a wine cellar. It was as if he could never have a comfortable place to be trapped within, there was no Goldilocks prison for him: this one was too dry, the other one was too closed in, the other one was a grand unknown, and the first one was a freezing hellscape of despair. He reasoned that Drobhna had the benefits of open air, human contact- it wasn’t as terrible as the prisons of his past.    

He took the tickets from the old woman, finding himself snatching rudely.   

The old woman glared at him and he didn’t blame her one bit for it.   

. . .  

Sirius wondered around the coastline like a lost shell that had been washed up, unexpectedly.   

Marooned on the sand, useless and limp, rather than floating free on the waves and currents with the other shells, the other fishes.   

He was a man stuck in wet, sinking sand now.   

He sat down on a rock, listening to the lulling back and forth of the waves as if the sea held secrets for how he was going to survive the next month with nothing to drink.   

In Snape’s company.  

Because he couldn’t let him out of his sight- he couldn’t give him a chance to run off again.   

He knew he was not going to be able to leave by boat, but Snape was a resourceful man and if anyone could find a way off this place it was a man like him.   

Even if he was visibly weaker, Sirius recalled. He narrowed his eyes, remembering the sight of the bandages around his throat, the bruising on his pale sallow skin. The fragility of his body as he had slammed him into the wall and then slammed him against the table and then threw him on the floor-  

He wondered if his roughness towards him had made his injuries worse- of course they had, Sirius shut his eyes, confliction making him feel ill. Why did he care if Snape was hurt because of him- he was dragging him back to England for worse, if Snape was right. Not that he wanted to believe him about Runcorn, as if he would be so easily swayed to act in the interest of a Death Eater. He felt lost in the dark about who he was supposedly assisting.   

Perhaps he should have listened to Harry a bit more, about Runcorn, before agreeing to a task that would have such consequences for another man’s life. Even if that other man was Snape.   

He kept his eyes closed, for once just sitting in the present. Grounding himself in the there and now rather than the knots of the past and the tangles of the future. He felt the sand beneath his booted shoes, wet and slippery and grainy. He felt the wind rippling around his coat, his hair flung like a kite on the wind. The sound of seagulls singing, diving into the sea for fish. He smelt the salt.   

If it wasn’t for the shaking in his fingers, the thirst that he carried like a chain around his throat, Drobhna may have been a somewhat decent place to be moored for a month.   

If a bit dull.   

He found it amusing that this was a place that Snape had decided to run to- and then remembered what Snape had said, about Dumbledore having organised and planned this exile for him.   

If Snape decided to see this place as a safe haven that was his prerogative, but Sirius thought it was a secret joke from Dumbledore, to bestow this dull and dry place to Snape for all his so-called hard work during the war.   

He wasn’t sure what was going to happen when he went back to the cottage.   

He knew he had to go back eventually, he had left Snape all tied up on the floor in the kitchen. He knew he wasn’t going to be going anywhere, he wasn’t going to escape any time soon, but... it was not a good feeling for him, he was surprised to learn, to know that he had left the man in an uncomfortable position for an extended period of time.   

He opened his eyes, seeing the tide had come in a lot closer.   

He wondered how long he had been sat, how long he had been gone.   

How long he had left Snape on the floor-  

He picked himself up off the rock he had sat upon, walking back the way he had originally came. He did not have a clear enough vision of the bungalow cottage to apparate, he hardly had a clear enough sense of direction to walk his way home. At times, he got lost, traversing across the meadows, a sense of panic rising in him- not at the thought of being lost, but of not returning to the cottage in good enough time, that Snape would be...   

When he finally saw the thatched roofed cottage, he found himself sprinting forward, dashing across the wet mud and flowers, finding the garden door was still open.   

“Right, Snape. I think we’re going to have to set some ground rules, seeing as the next boat out of here is not for another month.” Sirius began, wiping his feet on the doormat as he stepped into the kitchen, “Snape?”  

He made his way to the man, laying still on the floor, unmoving.   

He saw the man’s eyes were closed and his breathing was slow.   

He knelt down, sinking to the floor and pressing his hand to his throat, seeking a pulse point beneath the wrapping of bandages, finding the slow throb of life still coursing within him.   

He pulled his hand free from the bandaging, shocked that his fingertips were damp with blood as he pulled back.  

“Snape? Snape?” Sirius bleated, shaking him by the shoulder, “come on, stop being so dramatic. Severus ?!”   

He scooped him up off the floor, lost for a plan to make things better, to fix the situation he had made ten times worse.   

He jostled him in his arms like a limp doll, his bound arms making it difficult to grip onto him gently.   

He rushed out of the kitchen, the room freezing cold from the garden door being left open the entire time.   

Severus was cold in his arms, even beneath the clothes he wore- damp clothes, he noticed, smelling of the sea.   

Why wasn’t he waking up? Sirius screamed to himself, placing Severus on the bed where he had woken up earlier. He took his shoes off, lost for what to do to fix this.   

He saw the bandaging needed to be replaced.   

He was bleeding.   

He searched his memory for the encounter he had with Severus when he had woken, when he had found him in the kitchen- he had not done a thing that could have resulted in a bloody throat. At least he couldn’t remember if he had hurt his throat.  

“Severus- please, come on,” Sirius pleaded, using his wand to cut through the old bandaging to get to the injury beneath the gauze, “I barely touched you.”   

He felt ill at the sight of the wound.   

Not because of the sight of blood, but because of how injured Severus was- had he really done this?   

He ran to the kitchen, finding a washing up bowl and filling it with warm water.   

He rushed back to the bedroom, as if afraid that Severus had escaped. Knowing deep down that this was wishful thinking, as the man was too weak to leave.   

He cleaned and dabbed the wound, finding his backpack in the bedroom, summoning his own first aid kit that he had put together back at Grimmauld Place. He scooped a layer of healing balm onto his fingertips and massaged the neck wound, trying not to imagine the snake bite that had caused such a wound.   

It had been so long since the war ended.  

He had survived the attack, Sirius sighed, but he was not healing. He watched the oily balm mix with the blood that seeped from the bite, an odd sense of intimacy overwhelming Sirius at the contact. He shook the thought from his head. He rummaged through the first aid kit he had prepared and found a healing potion, wondering if it would even skim the surface of what Severus needed to revive.   

When he had done all he could, he realised he had not untied the man’s hands and knees.   

He took a risk, knowing that if this was all a trick then he was essentially freeing the man by unbinding his charmed knots. He looked down at the resting man, blending unconsciousness and sleep until it blurred. He unbound the ties, pulling his arms from beneath his body so he could be comfortable.   

He decided he wasn’t going to leave the room. Sirius wasn’t going to let him escape.   

He made his way to the unoccupied side of the bed, kicking his boots off as he climbed in. He sat up with pillows propped behind his back, summoning one of the books from the shelf opposite the bed to read. He flicked through the pages until he found the first chapter, his eye landing on Severus’ sleeping form beside him every time he needed to turn the page.   

He kept an eye on the slow, subtle rise and fall of his chest as he slept.   

He had a month to wait until he would drag Severus back to England.   

He had to make sure the man lived.   

He had to make sure the man lived so he would face justice. Whether that was through Runcorn, or through a more... neutral side of the Ministry. He kept his thoughts from this part of the future, the uncertainty, the unknown.   

He focused on Severus, finding that if he gave the man full run of his mind he almost did not think about the absence of drink in his system, the rocking of his tremoring hands.   

It was somewhat easier to get through the shakes and the sickening feeling within him, knowing he had no option to do so. There was no alcohol on the island- he had to be strong, what choice did he have but to suffer through?  

What an odd couple of housemates he and Severus made, Sirius smirked, a man in withdrawal and a man permanently hurting.  

He put the book down for a moment, incapable of pretending to read whilst his eyes sunk like an anchor onto the dark-haired man breathing so softly it was hard to believe he was alive.   

He dunk his face to the man’s face, feeling the softness of warm air flow from his slightly parted lips.   

Lips a pale red.   

A strange compulsion struck him. Something he had to pull back from the edge from before his own lips gave in to the compulsion, the temptation.  

He could not... kiss a man like Severus.   

The pulled himself back up, propped against the pillows, picking the book back up in tremoring hands.   

The disappointment within him was too large to deny.  

And he wondered to himself, at what point had Snape had turned into Severus inside his mind.  

Chapter Text

Sirius woke up early, jolting awake from a sleep he shouldn’t have taken.   

He didn’t remember falling asleep.   

He had spent a long time forcing himself to read the novel he had summoned at random from the shelf opposite the bed, forcing himself to check up on Severus throughout the night.   

Severus had slept heavily beside him. Not reacting to his touch, not remembering his fingertips prying a space beneath the bandaging he had changed to apply more healing balm to his skin. As if he could continuously press the oily paste against the unyielding weeping wound and cure him with his persistence. He did not stir at his whispering, his attempts to mimic conversation as he worked throughout the night, pretending that Severus would respond back. Anything to keep himself awake, even if he felt like a lunatic talking to the half-dead man.  

At some point, his body had sunk downward onto the soft bed, his spine as heavy as his eyelids that refused to stay up. He must have tried to convince himself that he would keep an eye on Severus with his head on the pillow, with one eye open...  

If he had woken up alone in the bed, it would have been his own fault.   

If Severus had taken the opportunity to run when he had fallen asleep, Sirius knew he could not blame him.   

Sirius swung his legs over the edge of the double bed and looked through his backpack for a change of clothes. He pulled off the jumper he had fallen asleep in and began to unbutton his shirt when he suddenly felt self-conscious. He peered back over his shoulder, noting that Severus was as unconscious as ever, weary faced and bruised. He quickly unbuttoned his shirt, shuffling the white linen from his body that was no longer as toned as he would have liked. The excessive drinking and binge eating at night had left his muscles feeling softer than he remembered.   

He shoved his arms into the long sleeves of a fresh shirt, buttoning himself up quickly. He stepped out of his trousers and underwear and changed into the new clothes from his backpack, wondering what to do with the worn clothes. He kicked them into a pile beneath the bed, his system of order from his school days. He turned around, once more looking at Severus, as if looking at him was a hobby he was constantly indulging, a craving he gave in to.   

He had never spent so much time observing Severus before. He never had the chance to look at him so openly, without retaliation from the man himself. He had never really looked at him. He had bullied him for his looks as teenagers, and had childishly followed the same behaviour as an adult in Order meetings. But he had never... noticed the length of his dark eye lashes before. He had never noticed the sharpness of his jaw line, or his cheekbones. The dark circles beneath his tired looking closed eyes. The slight point to his ears that was constantly hidden beneath long black hair. He looked at his nose and wanted to trace his finger along the bump of bone and cartilage that shaped a hooked pathway down his face.   

He had called him ugly.   

As a teenager, at school, he had deemed him a disgusting looking boy and made sure he knew it.   

But he wasn’t ugly.   

If anything, he was... ethereal. He was a man unlike any other he had looked upon and the realisation was striking.   

If Severus knew how intensively he was being stared at, Sirius suspected he would have been hexed by now.    

But he was unconscious, his breathing steadier this morning than when he had picked him up off the floor, he noted with more relief than he thought possible.   

He had managed to do something right.   

In the mess and chaos of the last few days, keeping Severus alive through the night had given him a sense of direction he had not known. Not since the veil. Not before the veil. Not for a very long time.  

He gave one final look to the man in the bed.   

In the light of morning he looked wretched. He had never been a bulky man, but his gauntness was bordering skeletal and he had no idea how Severus had managed to evade him during the time he was hunting him down. He had no idea how he had managed to not get captured, by himself or MacNair or Greyback.   

He may be significantly injured, Sirius determined, but it would be foolish to underestimate him.   

He made his way out of the room, wondering if this cottage came with coffee to drink.  

. . .  

He winced as he stepped into the kitchen, confronting the shambles of the day before. His untethered fury as he had lunged at Severus, flinging him against the wall and across the table, seeking some degree of power and control when it was plainly obvious he had none. He had flipped the table over yesterday and that morning he quietly placed it back upwards, noticing the now empty packet of tobacco and the shredded dried leaves that had scattered across the floor on the wind that crept through the broken back door.   

What was wrong with him?    

Sirius used his wand to brush up the dried leaves, wondering if it was salvageable but quickly discerning that this was not the case when he swept up dust that mixed in with the tobacco. He also noted that some of it had grown damp from rain that had blustered through the open, broken door in the night. He didn’t understand what was going on with him. He had been so angry for what felt like so long. And Severus was a lightning rod that had absorbed it all.   

He could not deny that Harry had been right when he had told his godson about the task Runcorn had asked of him. He had seen right through it all. He had seen the isolation he had slipped into since his friends died in the war. He had seen him drinking and the uselessness he felt. He had seen the focus that tracking down Severus had provided within him- the blinkered focus that pushed context and critical analysis out of the picture entirely. He had been a fool to do what Runcorn had asked him.   

But it had been impossible for him to consider that Severus was someone other than the evil Death Eater in his mind. He had just been ecstatic that another person had the same opinions as he did- he didn’t want to question the source of the shared opinion: to see if he overlapped with the beliefs of bad people.   

He stood up from the kitchen table and made his way to the countertops, finding an unopened jar of coffee granules and a box of teabags. He filled the kettle with hot water and placed it on top of the hob, lighting the gas fire beneath it with his wand and waited for it to boil.   

It started to rain and he felt the cold spray of water whenever the wind blew roughly. He made his way to the backdoor and examined the damage he had caused, to determine what he needed to do to make this right as well. He had damaged the handle lock when he kicked the door open, and the force of his kick had done something to the top hinge. Both would need replacing if the door was going to stay shut and keep the child out.  

It was certainly colder and wetter in Drobhna, compared to how the weather had been in England when he left. He wondered where in the world Drobhna was, it was so disorientating to not be able to place himself on a map; he might as well be on a different planet.   

The grey clouds of the morning did little to make him feel better.  

But he sensed he had no right to feel good at that moment.   

He had behaved like an idiot- he had acted without caution, without even the smallest humility that he might just be wrong about Severus this entire time.   

But even still, he had the tiniest doubts existing inside him and he knew that would only be addressed with a conversation. If he could actually manage to get Severus to speak to him and tell him the truth, in its entirety... He would know what he needed to do.  

Because right now, he was a mess of contradictions and it was impossible to reconcile and untangle himself.  

He felt guilty for how he had reacted to encountering Severus after he finally saw for himself how injured he was.   

But he hated the things Severus had said to him, the deliberately vindictive things that struck him like barbs.   

He hated his undeniable association with people like MacNair and Greyback- but he was uncertain on Runcorns’ status as he had no direct contact with him before or during his short time fighting in the war.  

He held what he had thought was a damning weapon towards Severus, the murder of Dumbledore, but Severus had vehemently denied the nature of the killing- that it had been in the preservation of life, that it had been planned. He had never known Severus to be delusional, and he thought a delusional person would convince themselves that the murder had not taken place at all. Severus did not deny the killing.   

He guess what it came down to was whether he could accept that someone like Dumbledore would agree in advance to be killed by a man like Severus- and for what reason?   

He felt a tremor in his hand again. A sense of inner trembling, as if his body was having a tantrum that he had not had alcohol in a long stretch of time. He wondered if the withdrawal he was experiencing was having an influence on what he deemed to be his volatile and senseless behaviour.   

Withdrawal, grief, a total disconnect with the world since he returned from the Veil.  

No- before the Veil.   

He had been lost long before the Veil. But the Veil had taken away any chance he had of getting that connection back. It had taken him away from Harry. It had taken him away from Remus, from the Order. From everything that mattered.  

And then, when he had returned, nearly everything that mattered was gone.   

It had made it hard for him to see the importance of what was still there. He felt terrible for how he had behaved with Harry. How he had... wasted the time he had back with his godson. He remembered seeing a post office in the town by the shore, he decided he would write a letter to Harry. He didn’t need a boat to send post to him, just an owl...  

He pulled the screaming kettle from the hob and poured the hot water into the mug of coffee granules, the dark rich roasted scent pulling him from his thoughts for a moment. He sat at the kitchen table with the mug of coffee, his large hands wrapped around the wide body of the mug. He peered inside the dark brown and wondered if it was possible to read someone’s fortune from the gravel of granules he would find at the end of his drink.   

The situation must be pretty dire, Sirius thought, if he was consorting with divination to guide him.   

. . .   

After he had drunk his coffee, Sirius went to check on Severus. As he walked down the long hallway to the bedroom he had visions in his mind of the man having made a run for it, of climbing out the window and disappearing into the wild of the island. He wasn’t exactly relieved to see Severus still lying in bed as it meant he was still weak.   

He rummaged through his first aid kit again, picking out vials of healing potion, of Wiggenweld that was supposed to give someone a kick of energy in battles. He unscrewed the vial and in one hand he held Severus’ head back, his mouth parting slightly as he moved, enough for him to slowly drip the potion passed his lips. He couldn’t remember if Wiggenweld was the sort of potion that absorbed into the body once it touched someone’s tongue or whether it was the sort of potion that needed to be swallowed-  

Severus jolted awake, roughly coughing up the Wiggenweld that he had choked on. Sirius pulled him upright, patting his bony back as he coughed forcefully. He changed his pats to a rubbing motion, afraid to cause damage to his back that felt as brittle as a bird.  

“What is wrong with you? What are you doing?” Severus bit through the slowly calming coughs, shrugging Sirius’ large hand from his back.  

“You were choking,” Sirius explained, a small tinge of pink dotting his cheeks, “I was trying to help you-”  

“You truly do have backward morals, Black. Patting my back after choking me is hardly helping.” Severus glared, channelling his panic and dread at being in Black’s company into prickly distance.  

He had hoped it had all been a terrible dream, but Black really was on Drobhna with him.   

In his house.  

And whilst he was all healed and recovered, Severus felt weaker than ever.   

He was still here. Which meant only one thing: he was going to drag him back to England.  

Why had he not already done so? He tried to remember the last day. He had not always been in this room- he had been in the kitchen. Black had attacked him- a lunatic look in his eyes, before kicking his garden door open and rushing off. Leaving him on the floor for hours in the cold, until he passed out. It was... inconvenient being as weak he was, Severus admitted to himself, as if there was any way he could change this.   

“Can I get you anything?”   

Severus was dragged from his unfocused thoughts by Black’s voice. He looked at him from where he sat in his bed, having retreated inwards after waking up so distressingly. He could not read Black, he could not understand what he was doing and what his end goal was. He had obviously placed him on the bed when he had returned from wherever it was he had disappeared to. He had obviously cleaned and re-bandaged the wound on his throat, the material was looser than he would arrange himself. He had obviously been giving him different healing potions, the last being Wiggenweld which needed to be administered to a conscious individual and not when someone was asleep.   

He could forgive Black’s ignorance on that matter.  

And now he was asking if he could get him anything?  

“Do you think you could eat something?” Sirius asked, cautiously. It was not like Severus to be lost for words, to be dazed and confused as he appeared to be.   

“Black.” Severus finally spoke.  

Sirius waited for him to give him something, to give him something that would make him feel better, something he could do to help-   

“Go away.”   

Sirius saw him peer up at him with hate and suspicion and shot down the instinctual response to bite back at him, to antagonise and react hotly. He had asked Severus if he could get him anything, and he had to accept that removing himself from the room was part of that request, even if it felt rude.  

“Got it.” Sirius conceded, stepping out the room and closing the door behind him.  

. . .   

Severus kicked the duvet off of him, more out of frustration than discomfort. He was aggrieved that Black was still here- that he evidently had every intention of dragging him back to England. He had saved his wretched life and he was clearly going to regret this good deed, Severus deemed tensely.   

He needed to think clearly. Consider his next steps carefully.  

He didn’t have the full picture.   

He didn’t have the energy to fight and run for freedom, so he had to be strategic. He had to be careful. Black was volatile and dangerous, and he was behaving unpredictably at this moment. On anyone else, his behaviour would be read as an act of kindness or mercy for someone who was as pathetically injured as he was. But Black was not kind and he was not merciful. He was cruel.   

He could not let himself forget this cruelty.   

He needed to keep him at a safe distance until he was able to successfully escape him.   

He ran his hand through his hair and gritted his teeth, a headache brewing behind his eyes at the thought that he had to live so tensely once again. It reminded him of the war and it caused sparks of shooting panic to revive behind his chest once more.   

How had he lived like this for as long as he had before?   

He found his holdall on the floor and reached in for his own first aid kit, his own potions. He knocked back a healing potion and felt just enough energy to... stand up.   

A sigh shook through him like an old wind.  

What chance did he have to escape, to run, if he was exhausted just by standing up?   

He didn’t stand a chance.  

. . .   

Sirius tried to not let the rejection sting.  

But he felt it. Rejection- by Severus.   

His teenage self would be screaming at him for feeling rejected by Snivellus.    

His adult self just hated that name, that stupid hurtful name he had used against Severus.  

He cringed at his past self, the fucking idiot boy he used to be and refused to continue being but old habits died hard and he wanted to rush back to the bedroom and eviscerate the man for his skinniness, his lank hair, his hooked nose, his secret pointed ears he didn’t know existed until now. But it would have been empty anger, empty words. He wouldn’t have meant it.   

And because he didn’t hate these things about Severus, he couldn’t weaponise it ever again.   

He took a deep breath and tried to get a hold of himself. He was... spiralling. He was over-reacting, massively, getting so upset by Severus telling him to go away.   

He wanted a drink, that was all.  

But there was no drink, so he had to move passed this.  

It was simple.  

He had to sit with the rejection and ... he had no idea how to even end that sentence.   

What existed beyond rejection, beyond the discomfort of being hated, beyond the thrum of constant physical and mental dependence?   

He made his way into the kitchen and decided he would try to distract himself from his thirst and his craving and the glass like emotional reactions he was experiencing because of this withdrawal.   

And not because he was rejected.   

He could fix the door?  

He could write a letter to Harry?  

He could cook something- something of substance for the man he wasn’t supposed to be helping?   

He would do it all, what else did he have to do?   

There was a lot of time to fill, now he was not chasing Severus and now he was not drinking.   

He summoned his coat from the hallway hooks and his pair of boots, deciding to make his way into town again to get the things he needed to tick off each of his tasks one by one. He walked out the kitchen, making his way to the front door, leaving the cottage for town.  

He needed to fill in the day, he needed to fill in the month, he needed to fill in that dark void inside him he usually threw drink into.  

. . .   

Severus heard the creak of the front door opening and the quiet slam of the door shutting.   

He was alone in his house.  

As alone as he would have been from the start, if he had not been an idiot and dragged Black on board the Ferryman’s narrowboat.   

The quietness of the cottage was something he had never experienced before.

It was the knowledge that there was absolutely no one left.

He was the last man.

When he had been stuck attempting to heal at Spinners End, the sound of the demolition crew had been a presence.

The faint sound of his neighbours leaving the area, one by one, had been a reminder of the passing of time.

Cokeworth train station had been populated by familiar faces and not so familiar faces.

Liverpool had offered him help through the muggle hospital.   

Lorne had been a reunion of sorts, a final goodbye to Dumbledore through his portrait. 

Even the chase that had followed him, had hunted him down, had been a form of contact.   

And now he was alone.  

And he had not expected to find this as frightening as he did.

He had thought this was everything he wanted and more- peace, quiet, freedom from the judgement of people who could never understand or relate to the things he had no choice to do during the war.  

But it wasn’t like that at all.   

It was like he was dead.   

With Black leaving the house- for good, he presumed- he was not sure he truly existed.   

It was like he had been left, in the Shrieking Shack, only this time he had no antidote.

He pulled open the bedroom door and faced the empty, silent hallway.   

He had never been alone in this house.

The Ferryman’s voice hung like a ghost, his big toothed grin visible in his memory.

He walked slowly into the kitchen and remembered Black stood by the doorframe, saw him lurch over towards him and push him against the wall. In his mind, he remembered being pinned to the table.

The first and last human contact he felt in a long while and would ever feel again. And it had been Black, of all people.   

A man he hated but had shivered from the proximity of being enclosed between his body and the wall.  

A man he despised but had not fought the pliable bending of his body over the table.  

A man he had known of almost his entire life but had nothing but bad memories and bad blood between.   

He was a reminder of how pathetic he was to have this weakness inside him, this self-sabotage that burned so viciously his skin should bubble and peel from the flames within.   

He should hate him, Severus criticised his own soul, he should hate Black and just hate him.  

But he was... just bereft to be in the cottage alone.  

. . .  

Sirius made his way back from town, having purchased what he needed for the tasks he had set himself for the day. He had a stack of paper and pens, envelopes, and he had visited the post office in town and confirmed that there were flocks of owls to make use of that could travel well to England. He had made his way to a hardware store, finding a tool kit and some nails. He knew he could fix the door with magic but what good was that when he was trying to kill time? He had gone back to the grocery store, not bothering to look for wine bottles this time, now that he knew they did not exist.   

He carried a bag of raw chicken, herbs, salt, pepper, potatoes, a box of stock cubes. Cream, to fatten up the stew he planned to make, thinking Severus could do with all the calories he could get at this point. He knew he shouldn’t bother cooking something for Severus, he shouldn’t think about him, but how could he not? He was stuck on Drobhna because of him and he had the sense that he had made a terrible mistake hunting him down, that he had made choices that revealed his worst side and this worst side was so massive when it compared to Severus Snape, he wasn’t sure if he had a good side.   

He needed to speak to him. To actually have a civilised conversation with him. To understand.   

Or at the very least, establish a... ceasefire between the two of them.   

Spending the entire month in this tense hatred was too much for him, Sirius knew. But he wasn’t entirely convinced he could move out to a hotel, or a bed and breakfast for the month. He wasn’t sure if Severus was as innocent as he absolutely needed to be, for him to be able to walk away from Drobhna in a months’ time, with or without Severus.   

He took a deep breath and walked through the backdoor, seeing as it was already open and he did not have the key to the cottage front door.   

He froze at the doorframe, his eyes meeting Severus’. The man sat stiffly at the kitchen table, holding a mug of tea and wearing his coat for warmth. He looked like he wasn’t sure he should vacate the kitchen, something Sirius hated him to feel.   

Sirius placed the shopping bags on the kitchen counter, rummaging around for the tool box to sort the door out firstly before Severus froze to death. He felt black eyes trail his movements, keeping track of where he was going and what he was doing. Sirius thought he could make things easier for him, by narrating what he was doing, expecting he would not respond.   

It was narration- not conversation.   

“I went into town to get a tool box,” Sirius began, unlocking the box and facing a selection of screwdrivers and nails. For a moment he was ... confused. He had not expected so many....  

“I’m going to fix the door.” Sirius continued, “I didn’t mean to break it. I kicked it, so it sounds stupid to say, but I really didn’t mean to break it.”  

He picked a screwdriver up at random and began to tap at the broken hinge, genuinely confused as to why nothing was working, why nothing was being fixed.  

“The weather is a lot chillier here, it was all hot and sunny in London.” Sirius mused, continuing to think aloud amongst Severus’ silence.   

He continued to tap, thinking if he could tap with the edge of the cross-head he would have better luck getting somewhere.  

All this time he felt black eyes drill into the back of his head, watching his every move.   

And knowing how he had no idea what to do to fix this.  

“Stop it.” Severus eventually scoffed.   

“I’ve not done this before.” Sirius said, as means of an explanation.  

“That much is clear.” Severus spoke, pushing himself to his feet and shuffling towards the backdoor.   

Sirius stood aside and watched him take the screwdriver from his hand, pressing the cross head into the nail, and one at a time, he unscrewed the nails holding the damaged hinge, removing the hinge and placing it on the kitchen counter. He gripped hold of the edge of the kitchen counter and attempted to kneel down to the tool box when Sirius stopped him, offering to find what he needed for him.   

“The silver hinge, it should look similar to the broken one.” Severus explained simply, leaning against the counter for support.   

Sirius knelt down to the ground and found what he needed. He peeked up from his place by the cold floor, noticing how Severus avoided looking at him, noticing the shiver that ran down his body despite the coat. He handed Severus the replacement hinge and watched him work, moving to hold the backdoor in place so he could screw the nails back in easier.   

He did not comment when Severus’ hand shook, causing the nail to drop to the floor. Sirius just found the nail for him and let him finish the job in peace. It was the first time he had done something neutral- bordering kindness- to Severus ... but the tension on Severus face told him his kindness was not taken at face value.   

Even when he was trying to be kind, he missed the mark.   

When the door was back on its hinge, Severus closed it, realising that the handle and lock was also damaged. He was just relieved the door could close and stay closed, if not locked.   

“I’ll fix that too, don’t worry.” Sirius assured, “I’ll figure it out.”   

Severus assessed him, black eyes searching him for clues for puzzles Sirius could not tell. He made his way back to hit mug of tea at the table, unsatisfied with anything he may have seen on his face.   

“I got some more tobacco as well.” Sirius remembered, digging in one of the bags and placing the tobacco pouch on the kitchen table in front of Severus, “seeing as I ruined the one that was here before.”   

If he wanted a ‘thank you’, Sirius sensed he would be waiting a long time.   

He began unpacking the rest of the bags, placing the packaged raw chicken, the vegetables and the potatoes on the counter to prepare. He opened drawers, searching for a knife and chopping board. He searched for a pot to cook the stuff, finding one tucked away at the back of a cupboard by a bottle of cooking oil- something he was glad to find, as he had forgotten to buy some.   

He began to chop an onion when Severus stopped him.  

“What are you doing?” his incredulous tone suggesting to Sirius that he was doing something remarkably stupid.   

“What do you mean?” Sirius asked.   

“That’s not how you chop an onion.” Severus critiqued, “you will slice a finger off like that.”  

Sirius had not realised he was performing this task so dangerously bad.   

“Well, show me then.” Sirius chided, almost enjoying the bickering when it had no bite.   

Severus summoned the chopping board, knife and onion from where Sirius stood at the kitchen counter. He chopped the knotted edge off the end of the onion, tipping it so he could balance it on a now flat surface. He sliced the onion in half, using his thumb to peel away the dry skin, leaving the strong scented green tinged flesh to cut and dice. Sirius watched him prepare the onion with finesse, almost suspecting that there was magic involved with Severus’ movements, his dexterity, his skill with a knife despite his obvious exhaustion.   

“Is there anything else you have no idea how to cut?” Severus asked, levitating an empty bowl to store the finely chopped onion until use.   

Sirius handed him the chicken to slice whilst he handled peeling potatoes.   

. . .  

Whilst the stew simmered in a pot, the scent of sage, thyme and garlic filling the kitchen, both men sat at the kitchen table. Not quite sat together, but sat at the same table. Sirius watched Severus as he rolled cigarette after cigarette, stacking them in a neat pile on the table when he was finished. He watched his long, nimble fingers work slowly and carefully, raising the open cigarette to his lips to lick the paper to close.   

He pulled out the notebook and pens that he had purchased from the post office earlier that day, deciding now was as good a time as any to write his letter to Harry. He might even be able to get it sent off later today if he went for a walk. Perhaps he would wait until the rain stopped before going for another walk. Or perhaps he would go out as Padfoot and carry the letter in his mouth, Harry wouldn’t mind the slobber.   

Harry  

I hope you are well. I am writing from somewhere I can’t really explain, at least, I think it’s best if I keep things secret for now. Keep hold of the owl until you are ready to write back- if you want to write back. I am aware that when I left Grimmauld Place, I was a disappointment to you so perhaps you wont want to write back.   

I am going to be away at this place for a month. Not out of choice, but because there’s no means to get away from here until a month. Don’t worry, the place is okay. Safe. Bit dull, but I guess dull could do me some good. It might come as good news to you, but this place has no alcohol so I will use this month to get my head in to gear.   

You know the reason I left, well, just letting you know I have found who I was looking for. It is best I don’t say anything just yet. Sorry this letter isn’t all that detailed but I wanted to let you know that I am fine, in case you had any worries about me.  

I’ll write again soon.  

Sirius   

Once again, he felt eyes on him. Black eyes fixed on him as he scribbled away in his neat handwriting. He didn’t look up straight away, smirking to himself as he grew to almost enjoy the feeling of those black eyes on him, it gave him a thrill to be observed by Severus.   

“The stew should be ready soon,” Sirius commented.  

“What are you writing?” Severus finally spoke.   

“Just a letter home,” Sirius smiled, folding the short but purposeful letter in half and tucking it away into an envelope.   

He wrote Harry’s name and the address of Grimmauld Place on the front of the envelope and sealed it shut. He placed the letter on the table and stood up to look for a couple of bowls and spoons, a ladle to portion the stew out for them both.   

He found both and turned to hand the bowl of warm stew to where Severus sat at the table, sitting down opposite him.   

“At least we both know neither of us poisoned it, right? Severus?”   

Sirius looked forward and saw a look of quiet shock on Severus’ face. His black eyes fixed entirely on the envelope that had been left on the table to post later. Unblinking as if afraid that if he closed his eyes for even a millisecond, the envelope would disappear.   

“What’s the matter?” Sirius asked.   

He waited for Severus to speak, an impatience subdued by a recognition that the man was genuinely shocked, genuinely distressed. Even if he tried to push it down, conceal it from him. As if the fact that he had these strong reactions was a bad thing, a dangerous thing. Sirius wanted to not pose a danger to Severus, even if that was naive. He was a danger. He had always been a danger.   

“Potter is alive.”   

Sirius narrowed his eyes, confusion on his face at Severus’ sentence. A question, hidden inside a statement.   

“Of course he is.” Sirius said.   

And then he remembered how the war had ended.  

How Harry had witnessed Severus’ memories, witnessed Dumbledore telling him that Harry had needed to die to destroy the last of the horcruxes. He remembered Harry telling him about the last time he had seen Severus alive, the assassination Nagini had attempted on his life, and then sending Harry away with his memories.   

“You... you didn’t know that Harry survived, did you?” Sirius summarised, “you don’t know what happened at the Battle, how the war was won.”  

Severus’ silence was answer enough.   

Sirius considered his next steps, holding himself back from rushing off and spilling everything, regaling the tales of his godson’s heroics. He had something he could give to Severus, or he had something he could trade with Severus in exchange for something he desperately wanted to know too. He wanted Severus to talk.   

“I will tell you exactly how the war ended,” Sirius stated, taking a bite out of the stew, “if you tell me what you did during the war. The truth.”  

“Why would you be interested in what I have to say about the war, Black. You have already decided I am to be killed for what I have done.” Severus responded.   

If he wasn’t working so hard to subdue his emotions, Sirius sensed that Severus would have been pure malice.   

“Well, that’s not true, Severus.” Sirius began, “I agreed to bring you back to the ministry, not to be killed. And besides, the next Portboat out of this place isn’t arriving until a month.”  

“I’ve gone however long it has been since the end of the war not knowing how exactly it all ended, I  suppose I will die not knowing.” Severus concluded.  

Sirius sighed, stirring his stew absent mindedly.  

“Is it that hard to talk about what you did?” Sirius asked.   

Severus did not speak.   

He did not eat.   

He got up from the table and left, having not taken a bite out of the meal.  

Sirius sat back in his chair, defeated, ashamed.  

. . .   

After a few moments, he followed Severus.   

Finding him in the living room, sat tightly on the sofa, exhausted and worn down. He sat in the corner of the long sofa, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his arms tucked around his legs.   

Sirius sat down beside him.  

“I said a stupid thing.” Sirius admitted, “I think I said it because, ever since I came back, ever since I learned what had happened since I fell in the Veil, how the war had ended... amongst all the grief and sadness there was an anger in me. I had been worse than useless in the war, but you- Harry told me everything you did, all the steps you took to all but guarantee the war ending on our side. I didn’t want to believe that you could be such a hero where I was nothing."  

Sirius could tell that Severus was listening to him.  

He felt black eyes on him, lightly, gently, rather than drilling down into his soul. Sirius was already baring his soul out for him, there was no need to dig.   

And those black eyes gave his exposed soul... a gentleness, rather than vitriol.  

“I was offered a chance to drag you back to the Ministry to stand trial- and I so wanted you to be the terrible person I thought you was, you have no idea how hard it was for me to have Harry singing your praises, knowing he had nothing to sing for me.” Sirius smirked, “the Veil took so much from me, whatever had been left behind by Azkaban. I don’t know why I came back, or how. But Runcorn suggested that if I was to feel useful I might be able to face the hidden memories I might have of my time in the Veil. I agreed to hunt you down, Severus, because I needed to feel useful.”  

He turned to face Severus, seeing the man flinch slightly as grey eyes met his black eyes.  

“I can accept that I have been wrong this whole time, that I have been a fucking idiot.” Sirius offered, “I shouldn’t have agreed to bring you back to the Ministry- not to someone like Runcorn. But I am here for a month until I can go. Can we call a... ceasefire, for lack of a better term. I don’t want to make things harder for you.”  

He felt his breath exhale as Severus pulled his eyes away.   

“A ceasefire?” he repeated, “you want me to pretend that you have not tried to have me killed because my life is worth less than your feelings of inadequacy?”  

“That sounds about it.” Sirius rebutted, certain the man was not going to agree anyway so why not be flippant.  

“Fine.”   

“ What ?”   

“I certainly don’t have the energy to argue with you for an entire month.” Severus spoke, picking at a thread on his blanket, “if you have decided that you are not dragging me back to die, after all.”  

“I just want to know your truth.” Sirius admitted, “I wasn’t there, and I don’t want to bog Harry down with the war. But I was there for the afterwards. If you wanted to know that part."  

Severus read into those words and realised that, whilst the Potter boy lived, there was evidently others who Black would normally have spoken to, who had not survived.   

“I will tell you, if that is what you want.” Severus confirmed.   

Sirius savoured the relief that spread through his chest, that something akin to positive seedlings were being allowed to grow between the two men. Even if he had simply worn Severus down, his injuries making him less capable of stubbornly arguing.   

“Right, well, now that some of the air has been cleared, do you think we can we go back and eat the stew we cooked?” Sirius smirked, “merlin knows you need the calories and it seems a waste to let our hard work go cold.”  

Severus rolled his eyes, but admitted to himself that he could eat something, that he felt less tight, less anxious, less on edge. He wasn’t sure if he could trust Black when he suggested he would not drag him back to the Ministry, but he just did not have the energy to fight.  

He had not predicted a cease-fire ever existing between them, but Drobhna was an exile for both of them it seemed- if only for a month for Black.   

He didn’t want to think about what it would be like, living in this cottage alone, when Black did eventually, finally, go.   

Not when the silence earlier had been so loud when the man had simply walked into town.  

. . .  

Chapter Text

Severus began to regret offering Sirius the bed for the night, offering to sleep on the sofa.  

 They had come to an agreement. As there was only one bed, for the month that Sirius was stuck on Drobhna they would take turns sleeping in it. But the sofa was lumpy and the chill from the broken back door seemed to be attracted to the living room, the sofa being on its flight path by the feel of the breeze that ran through the blanket Severus had wrapped himself in.   

His stomach felt... full. Having eaten what amounted to half a bowl of the stew Sirius had cooked, his body was unaccustomed to the heaviness of sustenance. Uncomfortable, he shuffled onto his back on the sofa, tucking his socked feet beneath the blanket to retain as much warmth as possible. The only reason he was attempting to sleep, the only reason he was still laying down, was that he was so physically tired. Mentally, he could not switch off.   

The ceasefire that Black had offered had been ... unexpected. Unpredictable, to say the least. Another example of Black behaving oddly. He had known Black’s behaviour since their time at Hogwarts, his time utter misery because of him. He had only known cold Black, sharp and witty and barbarous. Aggressive. Untethered violence that he had unleashed upon him.   

He remembered a bitter drunk, incapacitated and kennelled by Dumbledore within Grimmauld Place during Order meetings. He could smell the drink on him, everyone could. But no one would acknowledge it. It was an odd quirk of alcoholism, that it stared people right in the face but people avoided speaking of it as if ignoring it would make it unreal.   

He remembered his mother and father, drunk all the time. He remembered his mother being late to pick him up from primary school; at first, the teacher had waited with him, his mother turning up half an hour later reeking of drink. The teachers never said anything. They just let him walk home by himself after a while, instead of waiting around for her to turn up.   

Black didn’t smell like drink now. Severus wondered why this was. Whether he had rehabilitated during his time in the Veil or whether he just didn’t prioritise drinking since he had reappeared after the war and could enjoy his exoneration. But, based on his experience of living with drunks, he doubted either of these theories were accurate.   

He didn’t want Black running around in his head like this. Having to second guess what he was doing and why. Having to look at him in these close quarters.   

It was... strange enough, him being in his home- and even stranger, founding himself, if not liking his presence, but, needing it. He was... not repulsed by Black’s presence in his new home. He didn’t understand and the confusion was giving him a headache.   

He remembered sitting opposite him, eating the stew whilst Black told him all the things that had happened after he was attacked in the Shrieking Shack. It was a peculiar thing to have the silence of his time in the Shack be coloured in with noise and sounds that now made sense in hindsight. He learned that the Potter boy survived the killing curse Voldemort had inflicted upon him, although the explanation of how this had happened made little sense to him or Black.  

He had learned of the deaths. The grief. The absences that existed in Black’s life, the pockmarked tapestry where his oldest friend no longer existed, Remus Lupin and his wife Tonks, dying in the Battle of Hogwarts. They were so close to the end of the war. He learned of the grief in the Weasley family and thought it was never fair how death made its choices, to take the young whilst leaving decrepit bodies like his own to live.   

Black had not immediately demanded his repayment for his side of the story of the war, he had given Severus the time to absorb all the news. But he was certainly going to expect Severus to retell his side, to go through everything with him. Severus did not want to remember.   

He rolled over onto his front, burying his face into a pillow.   

It was pointless. He couldn’t sleep. He sat up, lifting himself up from the sofa with the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders like a colourful, garish cape, reaching for his wand that he had left on the coffee table. He slowly shuffled his way into the kitchen, thinking a mug of tea would help to clear his mind.   

He lit the candles along the kitchen counter, the warm glow of the wicks helped to sooth his aching thoughts. The kettle boiled and he poured himself a mug of earl grey. He sat in the silence of the kitchen, the dark sky obscuring the surrounding wilderness from his view of the window. The chill crept in from the back door that could not yet close properly. One of Black’s boots had been placed like a doorstop on the lino floor in an attempt to keep the door as shut as possible. Yet another example of his bizarre thoughtfulness.   

Severus flinched as the silence within the cottage was fractured by a hacking cough that echoed from inside the house.   

A gagging sound, a splutter of vomit splattering.   

A distressed groan.   

Severus stood from the table, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and filling it with cold water from the tap. He stepped outside the kitchen and peered down the darkness of the hallway to the cottage home he was still growing used to. He heard another round of vomiting and ascertained that the sound was Black being sick in the toilet.   

He stood, awkwardly, outside the open door, hidden by the wall, the tiny glow of the candles from the kitchen meeting the stronger glow from the toilet. He didn’t know what he was doing, what he was expected to do. He just stood there, in a nightshirt, socks and a blanket, holding a glass of water and his wand. He listened as the hacking stopped, the uncomfortable groans stopped. A flushing away of the sick and a splash of tap water from the sink signalled that Black had finished expelling whatever the matter was with him. He thought he would step out the toilet, go back to the comfort of the bed.   

When he didn’t, Severus stepped forward cautiously, tapping his knuckles against the back of the open door, looking down and seeing Black slumped down, legs crossed, on the floor of the toilet with his head resting on his arms.   

He was only partially clothed, sat in his underwear, and Severus felt a flicker of heat against his cheeks at the sight of the stunning man exposed before him so unexpectedly. His toned body, his sheer presence, his adornment of tattoos across his body, his dark hair along his exposed legs, his chest.   

He felt his pulse quicken.   

And, suddenly, he remembered that he was only wearing a nightshirt that just about reached his knees, a pair of thick socks that he had pulled to his shins for the warmth, and the blanket hanging off his shoulders like a cape. He felt ridiculous in comparison to Black. His stick legs were an unappealing quality, at least he thought so. But his legs were hardly the worst thing about his looks. Seeing Black though... he felt a stirring, a throbbing, within him that traversed his thighs, his stomach, translating into the twitch of his cock. He tightened the blanket around himself, ensuring his body, and his erection, could not be seen.   

Black looked up at him and it took him a few seconds to remember that he had walked down the hallway to give him the water.   

He was trying to help him, Severus remembered, handing the glass out to Black.   

“Thank you.” Sirius spoke, simply, taking small tentative sips of the cold water.   

For a moment, both men were quiet, Sirius sipping and Severus stood awkwardly, trying not to let his eyes land on the man sat on the floor.   

“I hope I didn’t wake you up.” Sirius commented, leaning back against the wall, his eyes closing as if the faint candle light was stinging his eyes.   

“I couldn’t sleep.” Severus brushed off, his eyes focusing on the wall, rather than Sirius, “what is the matter with you?”   

“Oh. Must have been that stew.” Sirius spoke, an evasiveness to his explanation.  

He opened his eyes and smirked at Severus.  

“Did you manage to sneak some poison into my bowl when I wasn’t looking?” he joked.   

“I did not.” Severus rolled his eyes, unwilling to joke about such things, before adding, “I am not affected by the stew. Perhaps it is something else that is making you unwell.”   

“I- I can’t think what else it might be.” Sirius shrugged, avoiding Severus’ eye, who now found it somewhat easier to look at him, he noticed.   

Severus saw the man shiver, a shaking that seemed to be internal rather than from the chill in the cottage. He saw the man’s sensitivity to the light, the signs of a headache.   

He thought again about Sirius’ issue with drinking, years ago, when he had been stuck at Grimmauld Place before the Veil.   

It was not... impossible to imagine he had carried on with the habit, when he had returned, Severus added up.   

Especially considering the grief he carried, with the deaths of Remus and Tonks, in particular.   

He had already told him how... useless he had felt since returning from the Veil, the war over, his part in the fight over before it had begun.   

“I will make something to help.” Severus stated, turning to leave the toilet to go to the spare room that had been set as a potions room.  

Sirius forced himself to his feet, grabbing hold of Severus by the arm and causing his blanket to slip from his shoulders in the process.   

“You don’t need to do that, not for me.” Sirius assured, his large hand wrapped around the bony arm on show beneath the short sleeves of the nightshirt, his finger meeting his thumb with ease in a circle he hadn’t intended to make around Severus.   

Severus flinched in his touch. Unaccustomed to contact- weary of past experiences of having Black touching him: as a school boy, it was torment, it was violence, each spell and hex against him, each shove to the ground had been a terror.  

The confrontation in the kitchen the day before swam in the deep depths of his mind.   

A longing.   

Its existence within him was almost shameful.   

A longing to have Black shove him to the wall yet again.   

He pulled himself free from his grip.   

“What- like it’s hard to make a potion?” Severus tutted, walking slowly to the spare room.   

Sirius felt the arm within his palm, even when he had let go.   

He followed the man, unabashed that he was so exposed. He watched the thin man in the white nightshirt flick the candles alight with his wand, lighting the burner for the cauldron as he walked. He watched him collect jars of ingredients from the shelves, his demeanour transforming from injured exhaustion to master of his craft. To confidence. Sirius watched him, as if witness to the making of art, the taking of single ingredients to amass a new concoction.   

Severus ladled the potion into a vial, handing it to Sirius with professional detachment.   

“What is it?” Sirius asked.   

“Something to settle your stomach.” Severus explained.  

It was a potion he had made for his mother once or twice, growing up.  

It settled the sensations of withdrawal when they ran out of money and were not allowed in the corner shop anymore because she had run up the kindness of the shop keeper’s tab. It reduced nausea, reduced the shakes. He handed Sirius a pre-prepared Wiggenweld potion for his headache. He watched him take the potions, knock them back with all confidence that he had brewed them safely and perfectly, with a need to have his symptoms alleviated.   

“Thank you, again.” Sirius repeated, handing him the empty vials.   

Severus took them, holding them for a few moments, unsure what to do with them, still getting used to the spare room as a work space. He placed them on a desk for the time being, noting he would clean them in the morning. When he turned back to where he was standing, he found Sirius stood almost too close, closer than he had been before he turned to place the vials down.   

Grey eyes searched him, as if looking at him in new eyes. Eyes that were only taking their first steps, gazing out into the world, looking at Severus as if he was the world. Severus watched him, cautious. The tension thick and inexplicable between the two men.   

He assumed Black just... disliked being helped by him.   

Severus wondered if he had over-stepped, presumed and seen too sharply the things Black did not want anyone to see.   

If Severus had guessed correctly, and Black’s symptoms were due to withdrawal... he would respect his privacy.   

He would make the potions to help it pass.   

He knew the first few days with nothing to drink was the worst, he assumed this was a peak in symptoms. He would give him privacy. Respect. Dignity. The things Black had never given him growing up.   

But those days felt so far away, so long ago.   

Another lifetime- the one he had supposedly shed by escaping to Drobhna- it was just... shrapnel that had clung to him, and he was too numb to feel.   

The numbness began to crawl through his blood stream, and Severus realised he needed to take a healing potion too. Sirius noticed the shift in his demeanour, the tremoring of his extremities.   

“What’s the matter with you?” Sirius asked.   

“I just need my bag.” Severus explained, making his way to his bedroom where Sirius had supposed to be sleeping.   

He saw the sheets tussled and stressed,  Sirius evidently as incapable of sleep as he was on the sofa in the living room.   

“Here it is.” Sirius handed it over, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching as Severus took out a healing potion, knocking it back and holding on to the vial to reuse another time.   

“You should have made yourself some of what you gave me.” Sirius smiled weakly.   

Severus didn’t see the point- the healing potion he had just brewed would have more chance of helping Black than it would himself. These potions were just... stopgaps, each one a tiny stepping stone to the next day. He felt the exhaustion that accompanied his tremors begin to seep into him and he made his way to the doorframe, planning on picking up his blanket on the way back to the living room.   

“Wait.” Sirius spoke, a quiet command in the dark.   

Severus found himself obeying, an instinctual surrendering to Sirius’ word. He waited, as if frozen, by the door to the bedroom.   

“The sofa can’t be comfortable. And you are injured.” Sirius stated, “have the bed. I don’t mind.”  

“We agreed to alternate,” Severus reminded, his lips drying as he spoke.   

He resisted the urge to lick his lips.   

“We could both...” Sirius edged to finish his sentence, but not quite feeling able to.   

“There is only one bed.” Severus stated, retreating, growing hot in this bedroom, “you have the bed tonight.”  

And with that, he turned and walked away down the hall, picking up his blanket along the way as he had planned.  

Because if he had heard Sirius speak any more, if he had pressed him, commanded him, to stay, to lay down beside him, to share the dark of night with him.  

He knew how he would have responded.  

. . .   

Sirius rubbed his face with his palm, dragging his sweaty, hot skin as a means of acupressure.  

 He felt so awake, so very awake, his skin and his mind alight with what he could only describe as obsession . He had not noticed his thoughts plant seeds of Severus in his head, seeds that were both ancient and new. He had not paid attention to the setting of roots or the sprouting of ivy like streams of rope like vines that wrapped around him, tightly.   

He had wanted Severus to stay.  

He had wanted to share the same bed.   

He had wanted to brush up close to him, proposition, make him an offer of sexual release, release he knew both their bodies could do with. His own body screaming with the need for drink, to satiate it with something better than drink; Severus surely could do with a distraction from his own injuries too. He had wanted Severus to want him just as much as he wanted him. And he wanted him so much.   

How had he got here? How had he got to the point where he was pacing a bedroom, skin aflame with unquestionable, undeniable, attraction for the man he had been sent to hunt down? He had denied this for so long, had put so much effort into this denial, foolish and delusional. He remembered sinking his face into Severus’ shirt when he had been in his house back in Cokeworth, he had told himself it had been because he needed to catch his scent and let Padfoot find him...   

He sunk to his knees, rummaging through his backpack where he had stuffed the shirt he had taken with him. He pulled the dark thing, the material rough as he lifted it to his face once again. He stood up, his body bristling with sensitivity at the faint scent that lingered on the shirt. His cock tented his underwear, the head of his cock fighting to lift the cotton of his clothing away from him.   

He fell onto his back on the bed, the shirt pressed to his face with one hand, his other hand freeing his hard cock and gasping at the feel of his own palm wrapped and stroking himself. He closed his eyes, his breath tight against the stiff shirt, his inhales needy and purposeful as his fantasies took over.   

He pictured Severus on top of him, his legs open as he sat astride his leaned back thighs. He was faced away from him, his nightshirt hanging and obscuring the parts of him he so desperately wanted to know. He imagined his hands extending, reaching out, running up the back of his thighs as he lifted that nightshirt. His hands slow, his hands greedy. Palms pressing up those thin slight thighs until exposed cheeks were revealed, his hands, his fingers, touching and grasping and kneading his taut skin. He grew flustered at the constant slipping of the nightshirt and his fantasies responded to this, Severus lifting the shirt from his body, exposing himself so totally for him.  

Sirius felt the precum slip slick from his cock as he stroked so hurriedly, his mind diving forward in his fantasies. His imagined fingertips plying those cheeks open, his thumb sliding in and out of his hole. He groaned at the imagined gasps that fell from his fantasy Severus, his thin back arching into his touch, engulfing his thumb with his slow rocking body...   

His body begged to be inside him.   

His fantasies complied with his salacious desires.  

His eyes rolled back as he imagined Severus sinking upon his cock, riding him, his cock stroked by the man’s hole so tightly – his own hand tightening in reaction to his imagination.   

His hips stuttered and stammered upon the bed, meeting his fantasy’s eager rutting.   

He pressed the shirt into his face, almost suffocating himself with the scent, his body heating up until the sweat was a slick sheen on his skin. He felt his body tighten, his testicles tighten, his stomach tighten, his cock tighten and throb and leak.  

He watched his cock slamming up into Severus, the pleasure rimmed pleads he imagined from Severus sending him over the edge as he came into his hand with reverberating force.  

 The shirt muffled any sounds he may have otherwise groaned into the night, keeping his filthy secrets from the real Severus who had left to sleep on the living room sofa on the other side of the cottage...  

The bliss that ran through him was enough to finally send him back to sleep.   

. . .   

It took Severus ages to fall asleep.   

He had reheated the tepid earl grey tea he had made prior to Black’s sickness. He had sat by the window in the living room, watching the night, the surrounding wilderness, wild and unknown. He watched the swaying of the trees in the distance, the wind that ran riot around Drobhna seemed to never sleep either.  

He put Black out of his mind, trying to not think of his obscenely bare body, his lack of self-consciousness even in his sleepwear- of lack of it. He tried not to think of the suffering he was experiencing, privately. He tried not to think of... forgiving his motives for having hunted him. He didn’t want to forgive, but hate took energy , and his past was something he had made an effort to let go off before he had arrived.   

Resting his head on the cool glass of the window, Severus sighed, finishing his tea. He continued to watch the wild, the trees and plants and grass and shadows swaying and interlacing like animals dancing in black and greys.    

He tried to listen out for the crash of waves in the distance.   

He closed his eyes to focus on sounds in the night.  

Instead of rough waves, all he heard was a muffled groan, laced with something other than misery.   

A familiar ecstasy embedded within the groan that caused Severus to freeze, thinking he should not be hearing this.   

But finding himself incapable of unhearing, unlistening.   

Unknowing.   

. . .   

An angry voice stirred Sirius from his sleep, the sunlight of mid morning pouring into the room through the window by the bed. He grunted, rolling over on the pillow. The voice grew sharper and Sirius suddenly realised what and who it was.  

He lunged across the bed to where his backpack had been placed on the floor, lifting the thing and placing it on the bed to pull the Two-Way mirror from his bag.   

“ You have better start talking, Black.”   

Sirius bit the inside of his mouth, very much unwilling to talk but backed into a corner.   

The mirror was cracked in places, Runcorn’s image fractured across the surface.   

“I am- I am still working.” Sirius spoke evasively.   

“Then why have I not heard an update from you in two day? Why have I received reports that you have seen Snape and not brought him in?”  

Sirius had no idea what to say- he was not used to this ... subterfuge. Knowing that Runcorn would have heard these reports from Greyback and MacNair, but was keeping this association from him. Runcorn evidently knowing he would be disagreeable to working with him if he knew about his link with Death Eaters.   

“I have chased him to another location, he got on a portboat but I had held on.” Sirius lied, playing as close to the truth as he could, seeing as he had witnesses to his actions at Lorne.  

He tried to keep as close to the truth as possible, but still being able to prevent Runcorn knowing he was with Severus now .   

“ Where are you now? ” Runcorn asked.   

“I’m in a small bed and breakfast in Oslo.” Sirius lied, “he can’t be far. I apologise for having not kept in touch, but there had been an incident with the portboat landing and I hit my head. I have picked up the trail and been following Severus-”  

“ I see you are on a first name basis with your prey.” Runcorn glared, suspiciously, “ Perhaps I need to send in some reinforcements to assist you-”   

“There’s no need for that.” Sirius forced a laugh, “I can handle Snape.”   

“ I want to know that I can handle you, Black. Don’t go off without contact ever again, or I will be forced to send help to you for my own benefit.”   

And with that, the Two-Way mirror went back to being a handheld mirror, revealing his own face.   

He wondered how he had managed to convince Runcorn of his lies, when his face seemed to show his stress so clearly.   

He got up, putting the Two-Way mirror back into his bag and pretended it didn’t exist until he needed to face him again the next day. He made his way to the bathroom with a set of new clothes in his hand, needing a shower after the revelling of his fantasies in the night. He needed a shower before he could look Severus in the eye again. He shoved the shirt he had inhaled the night before underneath the pillow, absentmindedly.   

Clean and dressed, he walked into the kitchen, putting the kettle on and wondering if he could sneak one of the cigarettes Severus had rolled. He grabbed one, stepping out the damaged door to the garden. He lit the cigarette, a roll up that was all the better for having snuck it. He felt like a young teenager, sneaking a cigarette from his father’s reserves. His father never smoked roll ups though, only the best for the Noble House of Black, he rolled his eyes.   

The air was crisp. There had been rain in the night at some point, after he had fallen asleep. The sky was cloudy, blue patches across stretches of grey. He inhaled the cigarette, his mind falling back on the image of Severus licking the paper the day before. Images of his fantasies from the night before-  

He pushed that out of his head, before he had need for another shower.   

Stepping back inside he wondered how he was going to cope with today. Another day without drink. The nights were always the worst, but the days needed to be filled.   

The potion Severus had made him... helped so much.   

He didn’t deserve the help Severus gave him, without even being asked. He could have drowned in the shame of his mistakes, his stupid past bullying, tormenting. If there had been drink available, he would have drowned his shame in spirits and wine. But he had no choice but to... fill his days with making amends.   

That certainly would be a big, distracting, project to focus on for the month whilst he dried out waiting for the next portboat to Drobhna.   

. . .   

Chapter Text

The rain held back from falling down from the sky as Sirius walked through the wilderness, Severus following a couple paces behind.  

He had tried to walk at the other man’s pace, but Severus appeared reluctant to let him walk beside him. Rather than make a fuss and cause a fight, Sirius just enjoyed what could pass for a pleasant stroll, walking as slowly as he could get away with.  

They passed tall trees with branches that appeared to brush the blue of the sky; they passed a tree stump coated in red and yellow mushrooms, vibrant green moss growing on the peeling bark.  

He had thought this island was a dull place when he had first appeared, Sirius reflected. But he had to admit the beauty and calmness of the wilderness made Drobhna a pleasant place. He inhaled deeply, his lungs expanding with the clean air. He certainly wasn’t in London anymore, he mused.  

A brown stoat rushed across the rocky path they walked, a man-made route build from the boots of other walkers from years gone by. The stoat crept by the stump, sniffing it before it rushed into the deeper brambles.  

“Did you see that?” Sirius grinned, turning around to face Severus. 

His smile dropped when he realised how far behind Severus was, his injuries preventing him from keeping up with his excited strides. A new slowness to his steps that was alarming to Sirius. Despite the ire he would receive from what he was about to do, Sirius found himself taking long strides back the way he came to meet him at his pace.  

“What are you doing, Black?” Severus asked, an iciness to his tone that suggested that Sirius’ attempts at consideration was going as well as he had anticipated.  

“We left the cottage together. We are going the same way into town. Why can’t I walk with you?” Sirius asked.  

“Because you want me dead.” Severus responded drolly, not missing a beat.  

“We have a ceasefire , Severus.” Sirius reminded, equally flippant, stopping in his tracks, “and I don’t want you dead.” 

“Apologies. You just wanted me dead.” Severus tutted.  

“And I’m sure you have wanted me dead more than once in your life,” Sirius smirked.  

There was no vitriol in their back-and-forth, Sirius was surprised to hear. In fact, Sirius was enjoying it- as morbid as it was, it was a... connection. A history. A bad one, put both men had only bad history. To be able to make jokes about it all gave Sirius the hope they could move past it- however naive that may prove to be. Although, he noted that there was no real malice within Severus’ words, despite the fact that everything he said was, unfortunately, true.  

He was tired, Sirius could see that plainly, so he took off his coat and placed it on the grass.  

“Sit down.” Sirius instructed.  

“Excuse me?” Severus lifted his face, his eyebrows sharp and narrowed towards him.  

“Let’s take a break. Have a cigarette. Take in the scenery.” Sirius asked, trying to appeal to whatever would convince the stubborn man to take the break.  

He watched him shuffle off his own coat, placing it on the ground to sit on, rather than sit on Sirius’ coat. Sirius rolled his eyes, just accepting the fact that he was taking the break he obviously needed. He observed him as he pulled out cigarettes from his shirt pocket, wordlessly handing him one. Sirius gratefully accepted the cigarette, pretending he had not already helped himself to one just that morning.  

As he lit the end of his cigarette, perched between his lips, he watched Severus do the same. Noticing he had a paleness to his usual sallow skin tone, a clamminess that had not been present the day before. He sat with his legs tucked up to his chest, his arms tucked tightly around himself as if he was trying to conserve as much warmth as possible since the removal of his coat to sit down upon. Sirius wasn’t sure if Severus was worse than yesterday, or whether he just went through phases and patches of worse symptoms of whatever was wrong with him.  

“Did you eat anything before we left?” Sirius asked. 

“My nutrition is none of your concern.” Severus stubbed out his cigarette, using his wand to eradicate the end, rather than litter.  

Right, so he’s just hungry. His energy is just dipping, because he hasn’t eaten, Sirius rolled his eyes, his concern no longer so heavy. Once he finished his own cigarette, he leant back and enjoyed the view.  

They weren’t too far from a pond, Sirius noticed, the light of the afternoon sun bouncing off the surface of the water and pinching his eyes. He turned, not even intentionally meaning to look at Severus but he was sat facing away from the sun. He found himself unable to draw his eyes away, even when a cloud passed across the sun and shielded him from the sting of light. 

 He noticed that he kept tugging at his bandages around his throat, as if they were irritating him.  

But then Severus noticed he was staring and his expression turned sourly away from him. He picked himself up from his black coat off the ground, brushing his trousers, erasing the sensation of damp from the rain wet floor seeping through the material he had sat on.  

His standing up signalled to Sirius that break time was over.  

“Try not to fall too far behind again,” Sirius tutted at him, “wouldn’t want you to get lost.” 

. . . 

Severus could not believe how far away the town was, his legs were exhausted by the time they had walked through the wilderness that existed between his bungalow cottage and the shore-side town. He suspected that Black had taken him the long way, purposely disorientating him so he would feel as weak as he did right then.  

He wasn’t going to let it show, he wasn’t going to let him have the satisfaction of seeing him effected by his actions.  

He shielded his face with his hair as he walked, following Black as he made his way to the post office; an old cobble bricked building that stretched up to the sky like a circular tower.  

The smell and cooing of birds could be noticed from outside the building.  

Severus waited outside, seeing no reason to join him. Black evidently thought he had exhausted him enough to not be a flight risk by leading him the long way to town.  

Black gave him a look before he went inside, as if he wanted to say something but held back.  

Severus rolled his eyes, lighting another cigarette whilst he waited for Black sorted the letter to Potter. The smoke made him feel woozy. He shook it off and stepped away from the post office, not as far as he would have if he felt healthier, but he made his way to the line of shops opposite the post office. It was uphill and his leg muscles strained with the effort to ascend the slight incline to the shops, but, as he saw that one shop was selling books and the other was a greenhouse, he forced himself to reach the target.  

The book shop was closest and he was about to step inside but he saw how small and claustrophobic the shop was and how eager the owner was waiting for him to go inside. She would want to speak to him. She would step too close to him and perhaps recognise him and then all his work would be well and truly over and he would probably be locked up in a prison cell, if Drobhna had a prison cell, whilst awaiting to be transported to England...  

He felt hot, his hair floppy against his shielded face. His neck ached when he turned his head. He wouldn’t go into the book shop. As much as he liked book shops.  

He would never see a book shop again and that caused a small pinch to his heart that left a bruise.  

He saw his sad reflection in the window, his eyes turning away, wondering if the greenhouse was more suitable to browse in secret.  

The greenhouse was wider, darker, surrounded by greenery that offered protection from view. 

 It was a perfect respite from the sadness that had touched him as he faced his reality at the book shop window. He took a deep, cautious breath, wondering if he was sure he could risk it all just to look at some plants- but it had been so very long since he had enjoyed anything and he wanted just to look, to touch, to be in the presence of something beautiful that had never caused him harm-  

Unlike Black  

He wasn’t sure where that thought came from.  

Shocked with himself, he pushed the stiff door open, relief that there was no silly little bell above the door to signal his presence. The shop was hot, the plant life requiring the heat, the condensation. He browsed the greenhouse as if strolling through an exotic zoo; enjoying the feel of the leaves between his thumb and finger. He remembered feeling content in the past when he had been around plants and the sensation began to thaw within him, but only reminding him just how numb and hopeless he was. 

He had wanted to grow flowers and keep plants when he moved to Drobha.  

But he felt so uncertain about whether he would still be here in a months’ time.  

If Black would drag him back- because as soon as he was told what he had done in the war, as soon as he had ‘repaid’ him with his side of the war, his truth would be his death sentence.  

He would have liked to plant godetias, berries, different coloured tulip bulbs. He had wanted to grow vegetables just to see if he could. He had never been able to try before. He concluded that he never would. 

The heat of the greenhouse began to make him dizzy.  

He tugged at the bandaging around his throat, the fucking irritating injury that just would not heal. It felt sensitive to his brief touch, sore.  

He looked up and saw the post office down the hill through the window of the greenhouse, Black stepping outside and looking around for him with a small tint of panic to his expression. He thought it would be unnecessary to draw out the discomfort Black appeared to be experiencing from his absence. He made his way back towards the door, the dark shop swaying with each step. He couldn’t wait to step outside again, to feel the cool air on his face, to feel the relief of the sea breeze on his hot skin.  

He pushed the door open, and the breeze blustered across him, dizzying and jolting.  

His body tremored at the sharp contrast from boiling to freezing- from darkness to bright light- from humid to damp, it was too much, too different, too disorientating.  

He saw Black rush over to him, trying not to look as irritated as he must have been at his wandering off- 

His vision grew white. 

His face and body numb. 

And then he fell to a heap, passing out on the cobbled sea facing town floor. 

. . .  

Sirius sprung into action, his panic giving way to autopilot as he saw Severus sway and drop in a heap of bones and too big coat. He was the first one to reach him, a crowd of onlookers approaching with concern etched on their faces. Sirius tilted Severus over, placing him on his back so he lay against his chest.  

He was floppy, sinking against him like Sirius was a hot stove and Severus was ice melting too quickly.  

“Is there a healer nearby?” Sirius asked loudly to the crowd.  

The crowd answered, pointing in the direction of another brick built building, slightly smaller than the post office tower. Sirius tucked his arm beneath Severus’ knees and slipped his arm beneath his back, gripping hold of his coat around his ribs for stability. He lifted, grunting with the effort of lifting him despite how slight he was.  

He followed the arrows of pointed fingers, one man leading the way as an additional guide for Sirius who hurried with Severus in his arms, shuffling him to keep him safe in his grip.  

The Healers House was bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside, as if an expansion charm was in place to keep the aesthetic of cobbled ancient brickwork outdoors whilst maintaining a more modern, clean, appearance indoors. A woman approached him, clothed in a long dress robe with a medic apron.  

“What has happened?”  

“He collapsed,” Sirius answered, unsure what else to say.  

“Take him into the ward room, the third one is currently empty so put him on the bed and save your arms.” The Healer instructed with an authoritative tone, grabbing a healing kit from a shelf.  

Sirius did as he was told, giving all his power to do what he needed to do to help. He placed Severus gently on the long bed, wondering if he should take his coat off. Before he could think any further, the Healer approached and used her wand to remove his coat and to unbutton his shirt as she noticed the bandaging.  

“What has happened to his throat?” the Healer asked, tutting at the bandages around Severus’ neck.  

The Healer seemed too impatient to wait for an answer, once again using her wand to remove the bandages, extinguishing them. It was then that Sirius saw the redness of the injury- he hadn’t seen it clearly when he had been putting healing balm against it, this was the first time he had seen the injury as openly as this.  

And it was shocking to see. The sheer violence that must have occurred for Severus to receive such a wound. It had a redness to it that looked sore.  

“What has happened to him?” the Healer repeated, more demanding this time, “what caused this bite?” 

“A snake,” Sirius gave something up, enough to help the Healer with her administrations, “I don’t know what kind. It was ages ago.”  

“Right, well, the bite is infected.” The nurse summed up, “I need to deal with the infection. It’s easy enough to handle, I’ll have him scheduled to come in for a deeper assessment of the bite but for now, I’ll go grab the antibiotic potions.” 

Sirius did not look at her as she rushed out, focusing on Severus so exclusively he wondered if the rest of the world had fallen around him. He saw his body twitch, his face an expression of pain as he stirred awake.  

“Try not to move.” Sirius instructed, a soothing quality to his tone.  

Severus heard the soothing words and looked up, dazed, hot and aching: Sirius’ voice was a need in that moment, a need to be comforted amidst the disorientation of the infection and weakness.  

“Where am I?” Severus whispered, so accustomed to finding himself in different places from the last few days but always being in control of these places, always knowing where he was. 

He was lost and he needed to be placed; needed Sirius to place him.  

 “You fainted in the street, I brought you to a Healer-” 

“No.”  

Sirius felt his chest constrict with the misery of that single word that Severus spoke. A low, sad whisper of despair, a despair from so deep within him. Sirius couldn’t help but step closer, as if about to hold on to him, but pausing as Severus flinched at his presence. He watched as Severus sat up, forcing himself up and to his feet. 

“What are you doing?” Sirius questioned, appalled at his movement, “the Healer will be back soon-” 

“I can’t stay here.” Severus stammered through the illness he was clearly experiencing, searching around for what Sirius presumed was his coat.  

When he didn’t find it, he just began to walk towards the exit. 

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Sirius hissed, grabbing hold of him by the arm and feeling Severus flail against his touch.  

“Let go!” Severus shouted, a delirious tint to his yelling that called the attention of the Healer who rushed towards them.  

“Sit back down this instance!” The Healer barked, her bedside manner leaving no room for discussion but Severus was not interested in listening.  

“I’m going.” Severus stated, still trying to shrug out of Sirius’ grip, his skin hot and aflame from the man’s touch.  

He constantly faced away from the Healer, much to the woman’s annoyance, as she was still trying to examine his wound.  

“Let go. Black,” Severus’ voice grew shriller as he spoke, “let go- Sirius !” 

Sirius let go sharply, Severus’ severely uncharacteristic use of his first name so alarming to him. He became so afraid he had hurt him, hovering with a delicateness that belayed his tall and broad stature. An unshakable need set in stone within him, a need to keep Severus safe when he was proving himself so incapable of it himself at that moment.  

“Severus, you need treatment.” Sirius explained, coaxing his voice to be as gentle and as soft as possible, trying to calm the alarmed and hyper alert man, mind on fire from the infected wound, “surely you must realise this.”  

“Not here .” Severus spoke, a plead to his hushed words. 

Sirius instinctively reached his hands out to Severus’ hands, finding the man’s hand grip hold of him like he was lost and Sirius was a guide through this darkness.  

He wouldn’t look at the Healer, would not let himself be seen. Sirius noted this odd behaviour, unsure how to respond but wanting to help him as best as he could. He felt Severus’ voice, his tone asking for help, asking for him to help him.  

“Look, if he really doesn’t like Healer’s Houses, the infection can be treated at home.” The Healer tutted, as if Severus was merely an irritation to her day.  

Sirius could feel the tension reduce within Severus, his attempts to shake free of his grip grew slighter- but not gone. 

“Take the potions, the healing balms. And make sure you wash your hands before applying the balm- do not touch the balm after touching the wound to prevent the balm becoming infected.” The nurse stressed, “And make sure he drinks plenty of water. He should be better in a day or so, with strict adherence to the antibiotics. Come back if he get worse, obviously.”  

Sirius nodded, relieved that he could actually do something that Severus desperately wanted, to get him out of the Healer’s House.  

He accepted the prescription of potions, enough to get him through the infection. He also took the note from the Healer, a lackadaisical scribble that told Sirius that she hoped Severus would not return. He disliked the Healer, and would do all he could to keep Severus from needing to return.   

He re-approached Severus, the man still looking away, and then Sirius realised that the man was trying not to be seen, trying to obscure and shield his face. He was trying not to be recognised by the Healer.   

Even in Drobhna, his place of so-called exile... he was not free. Not inside himself.  

Sirius offered his arm to the man, an offer to apparate them both back to the cottage immediately now he had the potions to treat him. He felt Severus’ grip sharply wrap around his arm, incapable of subduing his need, his gratitude, his sense that Sirius was a lifeline there and then. Sirius wondered how much of this gratitude was the infection making him practically delusional, lowering his inhibitions. For him to go from seeing him entirely as an enemy to a saviour was a quick leap. 

With a heavy quiet sigh, he decided that Severus’s behaviour was entirely due to the infection of his war injury- and not a very deeply buried desire for him.  

He peered down at him for a moment, a look towards his diluted black eyes, his subdued expression, relief intermingled, relief that he would be back in the confines of the cottage once again. Sirius took them both back in a blink of an eye.  

. . .  

The ride-along apparation winded Severus, causing his to fold forwards and sink towards the wooden floor of the living room. He  shuddered, violently shivering as he felt a pair of strong hands lift him from under his arms and place him on the sofa.  

“You’re very warm, Severus.” Sirius spoke, “take your coat off.” 

“I’m cold.” Severus insisted, sinking into the sofa like a tightly coiled ball of tremors.  

Sirius opened the bag of medicine he had been provided by the Healer, emptying it all onto the coffee table and finding a surprising amount of potions and balms. He found the first antibiotic vial and place himself beside Severus on the sofa, as if anticipating a difficult administration.  

“Take this.” Sirius instructed.  

Severus shivered and then forced himself to his feet, stepping dizzyingly out of the living room before Sirius could react. He held onto the walls of the hallway as he made his way towards the bedroom, stopping at the bathroom with a sharp turn. Sirius followed him, briskly trying to catch up. He heard a rush of running water and he found Severus kneeling by the bathtub, his body leaning against the bathtub as his arm dangled in the flowing hot water.  

“Do you think now is the best time for a fucking dip in a bath, Severus?” Sirius sighed, a headache growing within him- a familiar pin pricking behind his eyes.  

When Severus did not respond, his patience grew paper thin. His headache tinged and he found himself yanking him from the floor, a shock on his face that caused him to stop immediately.  

“I’m sorry, Severus.” Sirius said quickly, “please, you wanted to get away from the Healer’s House. You wanted to come back here. I apparated you here- so, please, take the antibiotic or I will have to drag you back. And I know you don’t want to go back.” 

“I’m cold.” Severus repeated.  

“Take the antibiotic.” Sirius insisted once again.  

He placed the uncorked vial into Severus’ hand, his own hand wrapped around his as he helped him hold the vial. He watched as Severus’ black eyes raised from the floor, up to his face, up to his own grey eyes as if he was seeing him through a kaleidoscope of impressions. 

 Severus almost didn’t know who he was looking at, the childhood hate he held towards Sirius, the unshakable fear and loathing, had lifted. Lifted like a fallen tree trunk lifted from the earth to show all sorts of life and secrets beneath the deadwood. He wanted to know what existed beneath the deadwood of hate he had carried, what earthworms and woodlice and spiders slithered in the living mud.  

“Please.” Sirius begged, almost sick with the headache inside him, but desperate to sort Severus out. 

The rush of hot, steaming water filled the gaps between the two of them.  

A shaking hand rose, Sirius’ incapable of letting go. Both hands held on, as Severus uncorked the vial, drinking the sweet content until the dosage had been administered. His black eyes closed as the antibiotic immediately began to trickle within him, targeting the red wound visible on his throat, the bandaging not being rewrapped around him in the Healers House.  

“I’ll... I’ll leave you to take your bath.” Sirius said, “I’ll light the fireplaces, get the cottage warm for you- as you said you are so cold.” 

Severus looked away, as if the potion was beginning to give him some of his sanity back and he was re-watching his own recent behaviour play out in his mind. Sirius coughed, getting ready to give him privacy, leaning down to switch the taps off for him.  

“Call out, if you need anything.” Sirius added, before closing the door behind him. 

. . . 

Sirius sunk to the floor outside the bathroom, his head resting on the wall with pressure, a need to hold his splintering brain with some kind of scaffolding. He wondered if he would be sick again, the feeling of breakfast and lunch swimming around in his stomach like a churning pot of souring milk curdling. He gagged. His head splinting with the act. He took deep breaths, wanting the pain to pass as quickly as it came on.  

He cursed his life, for ever taking his first sip of drink, for ever falling into such a spiral as he had in Grimmauld Place in hiding. Perhaps if he had any memories of his time in the Veil, anything that had occurred in the two years he was in that blank space... perhaps the distance between the last drink he had before the Veil and the first when he had returned would have felt more momentous. A two-year gap was a miracle - and he couldn’t even remember it. He was struggling to get through a week.  

He wanted to cry. He wanted to rip his hair out and smash the cottage up, break it to pieces just to release some of the anger inside him. 

He regretted the ease in which he had fallen into drinking daily, nightly.  

And then constantly.  

He wanted to go back in time and never, ever touch the stuff. Scream at his past self like a beacon of misery from the future.  

But, most devastatingly, most infuriatingly, he just wanted one more drink.  

Just one more. 

But this fucking island was as dry as dust, drier than bone. He was enraged at himself, for having this devouring need inside him that the island had cut him off from satisfying. 

But not the island: himself.  

He had chased and hunted Severus, seeking easy glory as he always had done and it had backfired. In a past life, he would have blamed Severus but he was too far gone to even think to cast stones at him.  

He needed to hold on to himself, hold on to the self-control he must have inside him because he had no other options now. He had to hold himself together because there was someone else who needed him to. He needed to make sure Severus was okay, that he healed from the infection to his wound, that he did not get worse. He felt an unwavering pressure in his head and he sensed that this was more than withdrawal screaming at him, it was the call of responsibility, of protection, and he knew no other way but to answer. 

He would get through this one minute, one hour, one day at a time. 

. . .  

Severus removed his coat as he stared at the water, waiting to cocoon him in the warmth. He shivered so much that just removing the coat added another layer of freezing to his sensitive skin. He could not remove another layer- he was sure he would die, that he would shiver and freeze to death if he undid even a single button on his shirt.  

He wasn’t thinking. That much he could tell, he knew he was doing something stupid but could not stop himself. He was just so fucking cold. The next thing he knew, he was submerged in the steaming hot water, his clothes floating around his thin limbs, his hair shimmering like spilled ink around his face.  

He was finally warm. Finally comfortable. His bones stopped shaking, his muscles calmed down. He faced upwards, the ceiling white and foggy with condensation. The hot water clung to him so soothingly. He just wanted to roll over and go to sleep, as if the bathtub of hot water was his bed. 

His eyelids drooped, heavy, exhausted.  

The water brushed over his lips, as soft as a kiss. 

. . .  

Sirius pulled himself together, a slow but sure rebuilding of his mind and body in the wake of the sudden potholes he found himself in. The screaming need for drink within him existed in these potholes and they grabbed hold of him by the ankle, unwilling to let go. He had to shake each and every one off if he wanted to live a free life for once.  

He made his way into the living room, seeing the coffee table stacked with vials and healing balms, the prescription paper noted with instructions on how to ensure this infection Severus’ wound carried was treated. He wondered how this had happened, but, seeing as the wound was unhealing and open- was it any wonder it became infected at some point in the midst of his exit from Cokeworth, to Liverpool, to Lorne and then to Drobhna?  

Antidote produces a sedative effect  

Sirius’ eyes fixed on that small note on the bottom of the prescription, unnoticed until now. 

And then he ran to the bathroom to Severus. 

. . . 

“ Severus ,” 

A muted knock from somewhere. 

He just wanted to sleep, now he was warm, he just wanted sleep. 

“ Severus ,”  

The sound of footsteps approaching, a shout.  

“ For fucks sake- Severus!?”   

Hands grabbed hold of him and yanked him from the warmth- his spluttering resistance louder once his mouth broke free from the surface of the water.  

“Stop it.” Severus mumbled, “let go.” 

“Let go?!” Sirius shouted, lifting him entirely from the bath, struggling with the additional weight of the water that clung to him like anchors trying to drag them both under.  

Sirius grabbed a towel with his free hand and placed it on the bathmat, placing Severus onto the towel and realised he needed to get him out of those wet clothes. He couldn’t spend time ruminating on what would be the politest way to do this, he had to be quick- in case Severus did something else stupid, or he froze to death. He swallowed the discomfort surrounding what he was about to do, preparing himself for protest and anger from the man. He grabbed a second large towel and sighed. 

He used his wand to remove Severus’ clothes, kneeling down to wrap the large towel around him before his greedy grey eyes would give in and take a peek at him, to fill in the gaps of his fantasies with reality.  

“ What are you doing?!” Severus shouted, tugging at the towel indignantly, covering himself and shivering.  

“You went in the bath with your clothes on, you were falling asleep in the bath! The antidote- it has a sedating effect on people.” Sirius spoke as calmly as he could in the tense situation, “I am helping you. At least we’re both even now, with regards to saving each other from watery graves.”  

“Fuck you.”  

Sirius felt the venom in his words, it made him shiver.  

“Get up, if you’re tired, sleep in the bed, at least there you won’t drown.” Sirius sighed.  

Severus didn’t move, remained sat on the floor, wrapped tightly in the towel he clung on to, even as his head drooped with exhaustion. His shivers told Sirius that he could probably get away with using a heating spell to dry the man’s hair and skin. He knelt down beside him, seeing the red wound on his throat, his eyes lingering before dipping to the exposed view of Severus’ collarbone, his chest.  

He rose his eyes again to the man’s tired face. His black eyes meeting his grey, a vulnerability to his eyes, a sense of fear that Sirius wanted to do everything he could to alleviate.  

“Come on, I’ll even tuck you in, if you’re so cold.” Sirius said lightly, “I’ve heated the bedroom.”  

He offered his hand, a quiet gap of time existing before Severus extended his own, taking his large hand with his own long fingered hand. His bare forearm, exposed with the extension of his hand in Sirius’, tensed as his tendons tightened with the effort it took to pull himself upwards.  

Sirius followed him down the hallway, surprised to feel the transference of heat from the living room fire place reaching them both there. He walked slowly behind Severus, his eyes unable to leave his form, his long black hair, his body- naked- beneath the towel.  

He was a conflicted mess of sensation right then, Sirius admitted quietly in the recesses of his mind, a dividing schism inside him to want to both peel away the towel and ravish the man and to tuck him up in bed – like he had said he would – to protect him and keep him safe. The division was dizzying.  

He watched Severus climb into the bed in his towel, too tired to do anything else. He pulled the duvet and Sirius placed it on him, actually tucking him in, his word no joke.  

If Severus had any energy, perhaps he would have protested at his touch, but Sirius saw a flash of something other than hatred and fear in Severus’ eyes, something within him having felt comforted by his action.  

As if he hadn’t believed he would do it- and why would he?  

“I’ll come back in a few hours to give you the next antibiotic.” Sirius instructed, “rest. You need it.”  

He found it endearing that Severus actually did what he told him, just for once.  

. . .  

The rest of the afternoon and evening was spent delving into distracting tasks, each as pointless as the other, before re-entering the bedroom to stir Severus into taking his antibiotics. The reading of books and the cooking of food felt so minor and so small, as if he was counting down the moments before he could have a reason to go back into the bedroom. 

He had even made sure to make contact with Runcorn, to get him before he tried to get him. Short. Uneventful, fake updates were made.

The need for drink became a whisper. 

Severus fell back into exhausted sleep after each antidote was consumed and Sirius applied the healing balm with clean hands. Trying not to relish the murmurs of comfort emitting from Severus as he soothed the wound on his neck with the balm. Sirius did not think he could take credit for the contentedness Severus felt, as his fingertips massaged the wound with the oily balm. 

He would sit down on the edge of the bed for a moment before leaving him in peace again, gazing at his resting form, his sallow pallor slick with sweat from his fever that was slowly breaking.  

Sirius placed a hand on his forehead to check his temperature, finding himself ... stroking the side of his head, his hair.  

He walked out the room, sensing he was going too far. 

Only to come back hours later to repeat the whole scene again. 

. . . 

Sirius struck his head against the kitchen table, hard enough that he was sure he would bruise himself.  

It was not enough to shut his head up.  

His stomach churned with the sickness that seemed so endless.  

Sirius was as hot and sweaty as Severus was, back in the bedroom, but he shivered with chills as his body rejected his quest for sobriety.  

It was time to go to the bedroom again, to give the second to last antidote.  

He forced himself up to his feet.  

Down the hallway. 

To the bedroom door.  

And he saw Severus sat up this time; the de-ja-vu falling apart with this difference.  

“You’re up.” Sirius commented, inanely.  

“How very astute of you.” Severus muttered. 

Sirius’ eyes on his body reminded him that he was undressed beneath the duvet and his hands lifted the cuff of the sheets closer towards himself.  

“It’s time for your antidote, again.” Sirius stated, full of routine that Severus was no longer complying with.  

“What time is it?” he asked.  

“Gone three in the morning.” Sirius answered, reaching out to hand the vial to him, Severus not taking it.  

“How can it be so late?” Severus spoke, confused, groggy.  

“Time flies when you’re knocked out, I guess.” Sirius rolled his eyes, his inner battles channelling out through frustration and impatience.  

Severus noticed the tone, the flippancy. He hated that he was... trapped in the bed. Unwilling to be exposed. To be seen. To have Black see him and mock his hideousness. He remembered being dragged out the bathwater, fully clothed and flushed at the humiliation of being seen so deluded. Behaving so erratically.   

“Take the antidote.” Sirius asked, again.  

“Why are you bothering to make sure this infection is treated?” Severus barked, the vial untaken, “would it not be simpler to drag me back to England, unconscious and sick?”  

Sirius did not understand where this was coming from now. He did not understand that the threat that he posed to Severus’ freedom and peace was constantly on his mind, a black sunrise that threatened to lift from the horizon over the entirety of his time on Drobhna. 

“We have a ceasefire-” Sirius reminded. 

“What a meaningless word.” Severus rolled his eyes.  

“I’m not going to argue with you, Severus. Stop being an idiot and take your antibiotics.” Sirius’ voice raised as his anger bubbled.  

“You are a liar.” Severus seethed, “you are biding your time to have me killed and it is sick. You, pretending to be kind to me, pretending to be a good person, manipulating me into thinking I can trust you enough to tell you anything - You are sick!” 

Sirius grabbed him by the shoulders, eyes steel and fixed on his black eyes, seeing he was not as coherent as he had believed at first sight.  

Of course he wasn’t.  

But that didn’t make his feverish paranoia any less real for him.  

Sirius let go, sighing, slowly making his way to the free side of the bed, Severus’ black eyes following him round the room, a sense of shock reflected in his glare as Sirius sat down beside him. 

“I wanted to know the truth of what happened in the war because I wanted to know .” Sirius explained, firmly, slowly,  as if he could parcel each grain of truth in each word to him, “I want to know because I was not there. I told you what I knew about the end of the war- the parts you didn’t see, because I thought you would have that same need... and I thought it would encourage you to speak if we treated it like an exchange.” 

Severus continued to glare at him, but his black eyes wavered.  

“Perhaps you would want to tell someone the truth. It must be frustrating to have other people tell different stories about what happened. To have people like Runcorn say you were not in the Order at all, to have idiots like me believe him because it suited me.” Sirius sighed, “surely you could tell your own story better than Harry does from the memories you showed him. He stands up for you, even to aforementioned idiots like me.”  

Severus felt as if this was the only... the only reason he would ever consider speaking about this.  

For so long he had accepted misdirection and cover stories about himself, because it served a greater purpose. But the only one suffering from his silence now, in the face of this continued perjury, was himself.  

But what if his truth was the final nail in his own coffin?  

What if Black was... lying? 

“The moment  I tell you what happened, you will take me back to England.” Severus broke down, “I am surely dying, Black, why can’t you just let me die here-” 

“I told you! I have told you- I do not want you killed!” Sirius held back his shouts, “I won’t take you back. I won’t. I’ll go back to England alone. You can recover in peace here. When the portboat arrives, I will go alone.”  

“You are lying.” Severus repeated, his eyes fixed on the ceiling above, unflinching.  

“No, I am not.” Sirius pleaded, trying to get him to just look at him. 

If he would just look at him and see- Severus would know how he was telling the truth. 

“I vow to you, I swear to you. I was wrong to agree to this hunt. I was wrong to use you. I was wrong to use you like I did at school, to make myself feel better by hurting you. I am sorry. I need you to believe me. I am sorry.” 

Severus peered up at him, eyes damp and black like the bottom of a well. 

“I am too tired to hate you.” Severus almost laughed, a lost mirthful laugh, “I am too exhausted. Your ‘sorry’ does not impact like I might have imagined it would do, once upon a time.”  

“But I mean it.” Sirius spoke, his voice lost.  

He wanted it to matter to Severus, as much as it mattered to him. 

For a moment both men were silent, spent from the unshedding of their turmoil and the chains that tied them to their sinking history.  

Both men floated, untethered, but bound to one another in ways that would have been inexplicable in their past lives.  

“I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to do any of it.” Severus suddenly spoke, “but I had to. There was no other way. What I wanted was no matter, it was not worth consideration in the greater scheme of things.” 

Sirius gave him silence, gave him his undivided attention, gave him the space to talk.  

“Dumbledore was dying.” Severus remembered, “he had put on a cursed ring and had nearly died the same night he did so, but we managed to contain the curse. But it was temporary. It was unstoppable. Dumbledore was pressured to set everything up for his plans to continue beyond his own death. And for that, he needed someone to be in his office, as a successor. Someone who criss-crossed the two worlds of the Order and the Death Eaters. There was no one else. And I had made a terrible choice, many years ago, and my life after that mistake was spent in entirely recompensing that mistake until there was nothing more to do. Until the war was over.” 

Sirius heard the weight of Severus’ choices, his life that he had lived. The life that had been lived and consequences suffered within in equal measure. All he could think, in that moment, was he could not judge Severus, he could not think to offer him anything more than peace. 

 Sirius had not lived, not really.  

He had made mistakes, plenty, in fact.  

But he had not lived, locked away in Azkaban, in isolation on the run, locked away again in Grimmauld Place and then locked away within the unknown of the Veil.  

He had spent so much of his life locked away, unlived, that as soon as he came back from the Veil he locked himself away again, back at Grimmauld Place, drinking again. 

He had imprisoned himself in drink.  

He could not judge Severus because he had made mistakes- because he had spent a lifetime committed to resolving that mistake, whereas he, Sirius Black, continued his with no self-reflection, no self-awareness.  

Doomed to repeat the same self-destructive cycle. 

“The plan was complicated by Draco Malfoy.” Severus continued, distantly, “he had been set up by Voldemort with the task of killing Dumbledore. I was asked by his mother to take the task, knowing he could not. But Draco had resolved to complete the task set to him. His plan worked- Bellatrix and Greyback and other high-profile figures in the Death Eater circles had made their way inside Hogwarts on his doing.” Severus reflected, a lost appearance on his face, a delving into the dark past, one of the most traumatising moments of his life. 

“It was either I kill Dumbledore as we had planned, or Draco sacrificed his soul.” Severus summarised weakly, “Or: it was either I kill Dumbledore, or Bellatrix and Greyback tortured him to death. I did not want to do this, I had a year to absorb this task but had not ... There was no way to prepare. My own soul is unrepairable. I deserve to die. But not at the Ministry. Not there. Dumbledore tasked me with the ending of his life and he prepared this place for me to live out whatever was left of my own life. I cannot have long, not like this.” 

“You could go to a hospital, Severus.” Sirius spoke, “you could see the Healer here.” 

“I cannot.” Severus refuted. 

“Because you think you will be discovered, seen?” Sirius asked. 

Severus nodded.  

“Dumbledore asked far too much of you.” Sirius said, falling back onto the headboard of the side of the bed he was sat on beside Severus, “did he not plan an outcome for you that resulted in you actually being... exonerated?”  

“It is not possible.” Severus spoke quietly. 

“Runcorn said that the portrait of Dumbledore at Hogwarts went missing,” Sirius recalled, “and he said the pensive memories you shared with Harry was missing- insinuating that these memories had never existed. But you could just share them again? And- you mentioned a second portrait of Dumbledore-” 

“Stop it.” Severus spoke, turning over, turning away.  

Sirius tilted his head, looking at the achingly exhausted form, his black head of hair, his shoulders visible. The curve of his tucked up legs beneath the duvet.   

He wanted to reach out, to hold him.  

He wanted to wrap himself around him so tightly and so securely, to shield him from the echoes of what he had been asked to do and what he had been left with in the aftermath of war: potentially permanent injury, a burrowing deathly self-hatred that drove him to see the exile Dumbledore had arranged as a final resting place rather than a second chance at life.  

He had to take the antidote still. 

Perhaps he would be more accommodating of this if it accompanied a mug of tea.  

Merlin knew he needed one. 

He forced himself back up into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the bed and leaving the room slowly, wordlessly.  

He boiled the kettle, carrying two mugs back to the room with him, his own hands tremoring and threatening to spill everything.  

Stepping back into the room, he saw that Severus had pulled a pillow over his head, as if he was unable to even bear the thought of seeing the world around him anymore, burrowing into the shadows.  

“Where have you gone?” Sirius asked, his voice that familiar soothing tone that seemed to only exist for Severus.  

“ You left.” Severus answered. 

“I made tea.” Sirius explained, “and I came back. You should take that antidote, Severus, otherwise I’ll have to drag you back to the Healer in town.” 

A steady silence drifted between them, a fog that was lifting slowly.  

“Or worse, I’ll have to arrange a home visit.” Sirius added with a playful smirk. 

Severus met his eyes beneath the pillow.  

His eyes fell to the tremor of his hand, holding a mug of tea, holding the antidote vial out to him.  

Severus saw the unmistakable, undeniable, signs that backed up his beliefs from the night before. 

“You should take your potion too.” Severus spoke quietly, cautiously.  

He was bringing the unspoken to the room, as much as Sirius had lifted his unspeakable ghosts to the surface.  

He waited for the biting anger, the sniping vitriol that powered the denial that fuelled alcoholism and allowed it to fester in people. He kept the pillow over his face, as if anticipating being struck by him. As much as his mother and father had struck him, in his youth, when he spoke of anything pertaining to their drinking being a bad thing.  

He had turned up at primary school covered in bruises so often. They went unspoken by the teachers too.  

“You know, don’t you.” Sirius’ voice spoke instead.  

Severus did not answer.  

“Of course you do.” Sirius chuckled lightly, “and only you would ... bring it up.”  

“I made you a potion.” Severus redirected Sirius, as if trying to defuse a bomb, “enough for the first week. Its in the cauldron.” 

And Sirius heard it, he heard the man use his potion brewing as a shield, his usefulness to Sirius as a shield against harm. He didn’t want Severus to feel that he had to defend himself from him.  

“You did. After all I have done. You did.” Sirius spoke, his voice cracking, “I didn’t know you made enough.” 

“Just take it.” Severus insisted.  

Severus listened to the silence between them, tendrils of uncertainty attaching one to the other in an intimacy of shared secrets. He heard the silence of Sirius stepping outside the bedroom, walking down the hallway to the spare room, to ladle a vial of a potion he had not known Severus had prepared so much of.  

A creak of a footprint against the floorboards of the bedroom told Severus he was back.  

The sinking of a firm body against the edge of the bed where Severus lay curled up. Severus felt the bed tip with Sirius sitting, the too soft mattress absorbing his weight with eager wanting. He felt a hand rest on his bare shoulder, causing him to jolt in surprise before melting beneath the contact.  

“Take yours too, then.” Sirius reminded, helping him to sit back up, once again, for the second to last potion.  

Both men held their vials to themselves, their sickness a mirror or their choices, their pasts.  

“How long has it been since your last drink.” Severus asked, knocking his own potion back quickly.  

“Since before we got here.” Sirius answered, “the island is dry. Something about an embargo.”  

Severus took this information in.  

“Do you want to stop drinking?” Severus asked.  

“I don’t have a choice at the moment.” Sirius tutted. 

“You do. You can either let this embargo make the choice for you, or you can take ownership of your own decision.” Severus explained, “do you want to stop drinking?”  

“Yes.” Sirius said, firmly.  

And he found it was true.  

It no longer... mattered that there was an embargo on Drobhna.  

The embargo could end tomorrow and he would still resist.  

“The potion you are drinking will help you through the worst of the withdrawal symptoms.” Severus explained, “but you need to do the rest.” 

“I know.” Sirius spoke quietly, “thank you- I don’t deserve-” 

“I don’t want your self-pity.” Severus yawned into his hand, “I want to go to sleep.”  

Sirius watched him fall back into a doze and found he could not leave the room, as he had done the previous times throughout the night. He finished the last of his tea, the mug he had made for Seveus, sat on the bedside table untouched. 

In the cold light of the slowly rising sun, he could not leave.  

He had shared something deeply shamefully personal within him to Severus and the man had not weaponised it- he had helped him.  

He had fucking helped him- without being asked to. 

He had made him something that would get him through the horrors he had experienced that night.  

In his own exhausted, emotional state, he found himself incapable of doing anything else, of wanting nothing else, but to lay down beside him.  

To be close to him, to be in the same bed as him.  

He placed his own head on the pillow beside Severus, his steady breathing a lullabye. He remembered to set a charm alarm to wake him to give Severus his final administration of antidote, the healing potential unfolding in his stronger and more coherent thoughts. He gazed at him, exhaustedly, wanting so much to reach out and to hold him. 

Knowing he could not.  

The spell would break if he stirred him now, he would be furious with him for lying beside him.  

He just wanted to pretend, to have what he could never.  

. . .  

Before the blare of the charmed alarm could stir them both, the room was a quiet chorus of breathing.  

The faint lines of sunrise, obscured by the curtains, helped to warm up the cottage from the outside.  

It would be a warmer day than it was previously.  

Severus, half awake, half asleep, felt arms  wrapped around his bare torso and the warmth of the other person’s skin against his own soothed him.  

Dreaming, he rolled over onto his other side, the wound on his throat no longer red and sore with the lifting of the infection. He felt the arms remain, wrapped around him, now caressing his back dreamily.  

Sinking lower, gracing his lower back ghostly, before cupping the cheeks of his buttocks, stroking.  

If this was a dream, it felt very real.  

He could not remember being touched like this- with gentleness, with firmness, with reverence. 

He could hardly believe he was dreaming. 

The scent of  another man met him, now he had turned around. In his dream, the man was dressed in comparison to his own nudity beneath the bed sheets.  

He wanted to be held.  

He wanted the gifts of another man’s contact against him, the warmth, the scent, the presence.  

It had been so long since he felt- comfort. Contentedness.  

It had been so long since he had dreamed.  

A pair of lips brushed his mouth, the man’s moustache and goatee beard scratching.  

So unfathomably gentle, as if afraid to break a spell, to ruin what existed in that moment. 

These lips belonged to Sirius Black. 

And Severus only knew that this was real, this was not the dream, when he fell back into the reverie of sleep once more.  

. . .  

Chapter Text

Sirius felt the bliss of warm skin against his clothed body, his own skin seeking contact where he could: through his hands; through his forearms where his sleeves had been unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows. Through the side of his face, his cheek, resting against Severus’ head of black hair, soft against the bristle of his trimmed beard.  

He hadn’t dared move, to remove his shirt or his trousers, just in case his movement brought Severus to his senses and he ran off to the sofa.  

He just indulged the parts of him that could brush up against Severus, skin to skin: hands, forearms, face.  

He was unsure how this had happened.  

The night had been terrifying.  

For him- he had faced the onslaught of withdrawal symptoms whilst ensuring Severus’ unhealing wound was treated of the infection he had caught. He had the shock of finding out after the fact that the potions Severus had been prescribed had a sedative effect. He dreaded to think how things could have ended up if he hadn’t caught Severus asleep in the bath, so freezing cold that he had entered the water fully dressed.  

They had argued briefly, a paranoia and withdrawal enriched argument that resulted in layers of truth being peeled back, revealing a clearer picture of who the other truly was.  

And then, in the catharsis of the argument, he had found it impossible to leave the bedroom. 

Instead, he had laid down beside Severus, beneath the same bedsheets, in the same bed.  

Falling asleep, he was unclear on how exactly things had happened.  

All he knew was that he had stirred at times in the night, unused to sleeping with another person after so long alone. Somehow, he had shuffled closer to Severus. Close enough to wrap his arms around his waist, his torso.  

How could someone be so soft, so incredibly soft? As soon as his arm had tucked around that narrow waist, he was gone. He would have to have had his arm cut off to let him go.  

He had felt the smoothness of his skin, his hand had bumped over the protruding ribs and hip bone he passed. He had felt the concavity of his abdomen, his finger tips had brushed against the trail of hair that reminded him just how naked Severus had been beneath the duvet.  

And he had fought his drowsy impulses to keep his hand no lower.  

At one point, he recalled with delight, Severus had rolled over in his sleep, edging closer to him in the process. He could see the individual strands of bold black lashes along his closed eyes. He could see the strokes of black hairs that made up his brows. The long strands of black hair that had framed his sleeping face. He could hear his gentle breathing. He had felt his stirring slightly, as one might do throughout the night and not even remember in the morning. It was in one of those moments, his eyes half lidded, he had leaned in, leaned forward.  

And he had kissed him.  

His lips as sort as his skin.  

And he had felt the kiss returned, meeting him, tentatively, cautiously, briefly. 

And then Severus had fallen back asleep and Sirius had stopped, expecting him to roll away, only to have him stay .  

They had somehow shuffled closer, and by the time Sirius had stirred awake completely, Severus was practically in his arms.  

He had no idea how this had happened, but Sirius woke up with a smile. 

He wondered how long he had left to lay like this, an awareness within him that as soon as Severus awoke this would be over. It was uncertain if this- whatever this was – would ever exist again. The fragility of the happiness he felt in that quiet moment was frightening to him.  

And then it happened, the charmed alarm rung and the man in his arms jolted awake, shuffling away from him with an expression of confusion and embarrassment. Severus’ hands gripped hold of the quilt that had covered them both through the night.  

Sirius charmed the alarm off, a heavy silence left behind in its absence.  

He watched as Severus, wordlessly, reached for his holdall by the side of the bed, his things not stored away in the wardrobe yet, Sirius noted. Self-consciously, Severus shoved his arms into the sleeves of his shirt, hurriedly buttoning the thick linen shirt. Sirius looked away as Severus dressed his lower half beneath the duvet, the self-consciousness the man felt was so obvious that Sirius didn’t have it within himself to make him feel worse.  

Once Severus was dressed, he stood up out of the bed. Sirius could tell that he would have left immediately, but he remembered to pick up the last remaining antidote vial that had been placed ready to take on the bedside table. He knocked it back, his eyes permanently fixed on the wall ahead, avoiding Sirius, as if he was not there, in his bed. In his house. In the same small island for the rest of the month. He left the room, closing the door behind him.  

Sirius audibly exhaled, sinking back deeper into the bed, his palms pressing into his closed eyes. The ... wordless tension of Severus’ exit threatened to tinge into the beauty of the moments he had shared with him. Sirius felt the moment transform into memory, which absorbed facets of the before and after of the experience- the anger of the argument, the small crack of light of peace that existed now, intermingled with the awkwardness of the morning.  

Sirius had seen it coming, he knew the fragile happiness that had existed would break... But the reality still stung. Severus had only held him that night because he was so affected by the infection of his wound. He would never have let himself be held otherwise. Sirius ripped his shirt off, finally able to undress now he wasn’t trying to keep Severus asleep. He kicked his trousers off. He rolled over and closed his eyes, his body desperate for more sleep despite his soul’s desire to follow Severus wherever he had left to.  

. . . 

The weather appeared to rarely change on Drobhna. Every day Severus had been here, so far at least, had been grey with the occasional speck of sun amidst roving showers of rain. He liked it. Despite the damp and the chill, he couldn’t help but enjoy the sight of rain running down the side of the windows, the sound of it bouncing off the roof. The smell of it. He needed to clear his head. He stood by the open, still broken, garden door smoking and listening to the patter of rain hitting the roof tiles, the empty flower pots and an old metal watering can that had been left behind by whoever had lived in this cottage before he turned up.  

If Severus had ever dared to long for something, to fantasize about, in the innocence of his younger years, then what he had woken up to that morning ... had been a dream come true.  

He had fallen asleep in the arms of someone he had known from the moment they had met that he had feelings for- however regrettably. Because, for a very long time, Severus had only known hatred from Black growing up. He had been held in bed by someone who had never allowed him a moments peace, who had endeavoured to torment him at every opportunity at school. But that small moment in bed together had been so stark and so different. The change was suspicious, questionable, unpredictable.  

Black had kissed him, and he had to pretend that this was a dream because the kiss’s place in reality was untenable and unsustainable, given the reality of their interactions.  

It should not have existed. 

He certainly should not have liked it. 

Because, to have liked the kiss, to have enjoyed waking up in Black’s arms- as surprising as this was- was akin to all the hurt Black had caused him growing up not mattering anymore . 

 This hurt that existed inside him so permanently, it was hard for him to envision a reality where this would not exist. No one else had cared that people like Black and Potter had hurt him, perhaps the agonies and injustice would truly be erased into unimportance if he too decided it didn’t matter- if he gave in and said that it had never mattered.  

Black had demonstrated that he could make attempts at ending his life whenever his mood took it.  

Black had been party to the assault after the O.W.Ls where he had been publicly humiliated and his body physically exposed, where he had been so hurt he had lashed out at his only friend and lost her forever.  

Black’s actions had taught Severus things: his life could be ended on a whim and this would go unpunished; his bodily autonomy could be snatched from him at any moment and therefore did not belong to him; and, finally, he was undeserving of human connections and would live a life of alienation forever.  

These lessons had made him an effective spy in the war, Severus thought drolly. Because only someone who had a foundation of knowing his life and his body was unworthy of dignity and respect would be agreeable to having a Dark Lord deep-dive into his mind on a whim, would accept the risk of torture and violence upon him regularly. Only someone who had been taught his life was meaningless would cling to having a use to others in replace of meaning . Only someone who lived so isolated of long-term connections would be able to do what he did without the potential for fear of someone he cared about being hurt in the crossfire... 

It should have been simple. Ignore him for the month and Black would be out of his life forever.  

But all he thought about, as he stood outside the backdoor with a cigarette lit, was how aroused he had been that morning, how hard his cock had felt between his thighs and how desperately he had wanted to have been kissed again by him.  

He had left the bedroom because he knew he should not be having these thoughts. Black had probably forgotten he was sharing a bed with him, because the thought of Black willingly holding and kissing someone like him was laughable and he was the joke. He was so ... touch-starved. He was so devoid of pleasure, of human contact, of connection, that being held like he had been last night was overwhelming. He wanted more. And then he would never have to see him again.  

Black had promised he would leave Drobhna and he would leave alone, that he would not take him back to England.  

He had vowed that he was not trying to kill him.  

He exhaled on his cigarette and peered around the garden. He had to admit to himself, that this... promise Black had made had given him a state of stability for himself and his future on Drobhna. Before, he had thought it would be pointless to try to grow flowers and plants in this garden, because he would not be there in the spring to see them bloom- that he would have been dragged back by Black to the Ministry before he had even finished plotting the bulbs.  

He wondered if he had the energy to make his way back to town at some point, to splurge on whatever he wanted to make this garden into something he could cultivate and enjoy. It was a difficult reality to adapt to, not knowing if he had the capacity to walk one way and have the energy to make the journey home safely as well.  

Cricking his neck, he noted that the stiffness and soreness that had struck his neck with the onslaught of the infection to his wound had alleviated. He had been taken care of by Black, as shocking as it was to admit to. He had kept him alive. He had got him away from the Healer’s House, a place he did not want to stay- in case someone got a good look at him and realised who he was and what he had done in the war. He had removed him from a place he did not want to remain and, in consequence, had taken his healing into his hands. 

Severus acknowledged that Black had even made sure he didn’t drown when the infection had eaten away at his grip on his sanity for a moment. Severus  cringed at the reflection, at having been yanked from the bathtub, still dressed. Having had his sopping wet clothes charmed off him to prevent him from freezing. Black had even made sure he was covered in a towel, rather than leave him bare and humiliated once again. Perhaps in these small ways, Black had improved from who he used to be and how he used to treat him, he rolled his eyes at the smallest of mercies.  

Sighing, he longed to take a long walk. 

He longed to be able to just do the things he had used to enjoy before his injury had weakened him so devastatingly.  

He looked out to the wilderness that surrounded his new cottage and felt this world had grown perpetually out of reach. He remembered strolling the Forbidden Forest, both as a student and a teacher years ago, and he wondered if Dumbledore had found this place in Drobhna because he had always known he revered nature and the peace of the outdoors.  

Dumbledore was not to know he would exit the war so wrecked, as wise and knowledgeable as he had been in life.  

He looked out to the tops of the trees in the distance, a thin line of grey could be seen from where he stood, the sea waving back and forth by the shore. He squinted his eyes in the rising sun, seeing a large bird soaring closer and closer. An owl, dragging a large package on its sturdy clawed legs. He watched it begin to descend, catching Severus’ eye and flinging the parcel in his direction from up above in the sky.  

Alarmed, Severus sprung forward, extending his hands to quickly try to catch the falling parcel that the owl had discarded. Severus had never been sporty, so it was an achievement that he managed to grab hold of the parcel with his fingers before it hit the ground. He hoped there was nothing fragile in the parcel- and then he realised something horrifying. Someone had sent a parcel to his cottage. Someone had sent a parcel to a place he had never wanted anyone to know about. He read the label on the parcel- it was for Black.  

He remembered that Black had sent an owl to Potter – and he had responded very quickly. 

Holding the parcel in his hand, he felt conflicted on what to do.  

He had stepped outside the cottage, outside his bedroom, to get some space between him and Black. To clear his head.  

But now he had something that belonged to Black and he couldn’t help but notice the stupid giddy sensation in his chest that came with having a reason to return to his bedroom...  

He was an idiot, he chided himself, an absolute fool for having every reason in the world to despise Black but still carrying this longing in him. He felt pathetic. He should just dump the parcel outside in the garden, where the blasted owl would have ‘posted’ it anyway if he had not been there. 

Looking down at the parcel, he ignored the logical part of himself that told him to just leave it in the rain, or on the kitchen table, or on the coffee table for Black to see for himself later on. He walked back inside, removing his shoes at the garden door, and made his way down the hallway to his bedroom.  

. . . 

He knocked on the door to the bedroom and heard nothing back. For a lingering moment, again, Severus was unsure how to proceed, having no schemata for whether it was appropriate to enter the bedroom when someone was sleeping. Even if it was his own bedroom. In the end, he pushed the door open, seeing that Black was fast asleep on his back in the bed. He had removed his shirt, Severus noticed, as he was sure to have remembered if he was bare chested when he woke up laying against him. The side of his face remembered the feel of the cotton shirt and not the warm press of skin against skin. He had definitely undressed since he had left the room.  

His hair contrasted with the smoothness of the pillowcases. The wild waves of brown lay scattered across the white of the pillows, hair as thick and voluminous as his own was lank and straight. He felt compelled to run his long fingers through the waves, just to see what they felt like. He wanted to run his hands along the thick coarse strands of his beard, of his moustache, so different to his own deliberately bare face.  

The physical transformation Black went through stuck out in his mind. At school, he had been effortlessly handsome and he had hated every single part of him for it, for the effect he had on him. To see him as something so beautiful even whilst being attacked so cruelly by Black. He hated himself for the attraction he carried, thinking he must have deserved the hate and violence if he was attracted to the man hurting him. And then they had left school. Never to see each other again until fate forced them back in the same space: the Shrieking Shack.  

Black was a different person, without the effortlessly stunning air of a man who saw himself as an Adonis in his youth. After escaping Azkaban, his looks had been devoured by the years of neglect. But even still- inexplicably, even when he thought Black had been the one to betray Lily Potter and reveal the secret keeper location of where they had been hiding... even when he had believed he was a murderer of countless muggles... that ache existed within him for him and it made him all the sicker. He wanted it exorcised from his soul. He had tried to have Black exorcised by dementor.  

Looking at him now, despite the entirety of his time in the Veil being a mystery... he saw that Black was a survivor. Someone who had learned to fight and suffer in ways his youthful iteration never experienced. He had survived, on the run. He had survived Azkaban, he had survived living off of rats in caves just to be close to his godson, he had survived the downfall of being kennelled at Grimmauld Place. Even with people like him taunting him for it, a tinge of guilt crossing over his mind. And now, he was fighting the addiction that strove to destroy him.  

He was more than beautiful now. He was resilient, enduring.  

And that was... harder for Severus to untangle himself from.  

He had to untangle somehow, or face the same rejection he had always known.  

Looking down at the man in the bed, Severus felt like a voyeur, observing the man whilst he slept. Eyes running over the hair on his chest, his underarms, his forearms. The toned muscles that were covered in an endless portfolio of tattoos. He would not have enough time to examine each one, it seemed impossible for him to take these black lines in to memory as his senses were overloaded with the visual beauty before him.  

He watched his chest, rising and falling, and realised that this morning was not quite a dream come true.  

Because Severus had a new, slightly more risqué dream; to wake up with Black as naked as he himself had been that morning. To wake up with his face pressed against the heat of his chest.  

His breath hitched as he inhaled sharply, eyes trailing downward to where the quilt finally covered and obscured his lower half. An unmistakable bulge evident beneath the quilt caused his eyebrow to instinctively tilt upwards in pause. He imagined the quilt dipping, lower and lower, until he could see everything his eyes wanted to see.  

In his new, slightly more risqué dream, he imagined that bulge pressed against his hole, his legs bracketed by Black’s thighs as he-  

He froze as Black shifted in the bed, sleepily rolling over to his side, revealing his muscular back and the slightest hint of toned buttocks and Severus knew he needed to leave the bedroom immediately.  

He was uncomfortable enjoying the sight of Black.  

He placed the parcel down on the bedside table and quietly and quickly vacated the bedroom.  

. . . 

Severus decided he needed to go for that walk, even if he had concerns about his capacity to make it to where he wanted to go and back again. He just could not stay in this cottage right now, with his mind so overrun with salacious needs and his body more than eager to indulge. 

He was typically a man of self-control, of self-denial. But sex was release. Sex was a way for him to forget his life for a brief moment, in a brief encounter. There had never been any feelings involved. There had never been any connection. Sometimes, he did not even know the other man’s name and he was happy enough that they didn’t know his name.  

It would be as easy as making eye contact in a pub, a knowing look between him and this stranger. They would find somewhere secluded, an alleyway was common, the other man’s bedroom when he felt risky. They would fuck, he would leave.  

His attraction to Black was an outlier of his sexual encounters because, firstly, they knew each other’s names and, secondly, if anything was to occur between the two of them during this month until Black left Drobhna, there wasn’t anywhere else for either of them to ‘leave’ to in the meantime. They were, and this acknowledgment was catastrophic to Severus, they were temporarily living together.   

He grabbed his coat, preparing his pockets with vials of healing potion in case he felt faint on the way to town. He caught his reflection in the mirror and wished he could go back into the bedroom to get his holdall and take out the bandages to re-wrap around his throat. He shuffled into his coat, obscuring the ugly injury, hoping it was good enough to protect the annoying wound from a second infection. He stepped back into the shoes he had left by the garden door, his mind electrified with the unpredictability of the last few days.  

The wilderness welcomed his lost self, tree branches wide like open arms. 

. . .  

The walk towards town was not as long as it had felt the day before.  

He remembered feeling whole-heartedly convinced that Black had led him down the longest, most convoluted path possible just to wear him down. He wasn’t entirely sure if this was paranoia brought on by the infection, or whether he truly did think Black was that vindictive.  

But now that he had taken all his antibiotics and his antidotes... he could enjoy the walk.  

The caress of the wind against his face, soft and wispy despite the bluster above the canopies of trees. 

The deep inhale of the petrichor filling his lungs. 

The sound of the pattering rain, slipping from leaf to moss bedded earth.  

This was as close to peace as he had ever known.  

He had wondered, at the times when life had been most chaotic and most violent, if he would even recognise peace if it came to him. His entire life had been devoid of it. Would he recognise it, only by the absence he had known? By the gaps he had tried to fill in, with fantasies of serenity and tranquillity- these things only being words to him up until now.  

Until now.  

Could he even say that now ? Could he even accept that this was peace? The tension he held in his chest like a bad cough, felt antithetical to what he had imagined peace would feel like. The anxiety had certainly reduced somewhat since he had heard Black vow that he would be going back to England alone. He had vowed it. He had even said sorry to him- he should be feeling peace. But the tension persisted. A tension he just wanted to break, to smash to pieces, to make it no longer exist.  

He licked his lips, the breeze lingering upon him. 

. . . 

Sirius stretched out his legs, his calf muscles straining blissfully out to the end of the bed. The souls of his feet pressing against the foot of the bed, cool against his skin. He hadn’t slept enough, he knew, but what he had managed to catch had been... good. He almost felt rested. Without the alcohol slugging through him, he didn’t wake up hungover and this was such a novelty to him it made him smile. He didn’t feel the parchedness in his mouth, the soreness in his eyes. He didn’t feel the nausea in his stomach. All he had drunk the night before was tea, water and the potion that Severus had brewed for him.  

The mention of Severus in his head caused a small seed of regret to twitch in the recesses of his mind. He felt exposed. Severus had known he had a problem with drink, he had known from the time they had sat opposite each other in the Order.  

He felt ashamed that his addiction was so apparent, so obvious, and yet... he was the only one to mention it.  

And he had done so without vitriol or cruelty.  

He had not flung his drink problem back at his face, as he had expected people to.  

Severus had a weapon against him that would have devastated him to be pierced by, and he had only offered him respite from his withdrawal symptoms. He felt over exposed for admitting to his problem to Severus, but he... wondered if there was a possibility that his burden was shared in good hands. 

He had kissed him. The sudden shocking memory struck him like thunder. He had kissed him. Severus had huddled up to him in the night, had not pushed his contact away...  

Because he was ill, he reminded himself, reigning his skipping heart in.  

His heart ? He narrowed his eyes, wondering when his heart got involved in this business.  

He sat up in bed, willing his head to switch off, when he saw a parcel on the floor. He flung himself over the bed, stretching himself to reach the paper wrapped box. It had his name on. 

He pulled himself back up and carefully tore open the parcel, a smile on his face as he realised it was from Harry. He picked up a letter and, excitedly, he found the Two-Way Mirror he had gifted Harry years ago, before the Veil. Hopefully this time... he would answer him this time, Sirius smiled sadly to himself.  

Dear Sirius,  

It is a massive relief to hear from you. I was afraid you were gone for ever and one of the last things I said to you was ‘I hope you get hexed.’ It was a bad way to part ways and I am sorry.   

When you said you can’t say too much, I’m guessing- hoping- you mean you can’t write things down as you suspect it may cause an issue for you or the ‘person you were hunting’? I have tasked the owl with sending you the mirror you gifted me, I have the other one, and we are going to use them this time. Hopefully it will be easier for you to talk, without a paper trail anyway.   

Thank you for confiding that you have a problem with drink, for admitting to it to me. I wont lie to you, Sirius, it was so hard to see you so troubled and being so powerless to stop it. Are you sure you are stopping safely? Hermione said it could be dangerous to just quit ‘cold turkey’ and has asked me to ask you if it is an option to get medical assistance where you are?   

You said you can’t come back for a month- where are you?! Where has your tracking of ( Sirius noted that Harry had scribbled out Severus’ name in the letter) taken you? Are you stuck together or are you alone? I can’t imagine you two bunking down and getting along, all domestic, so I will assume you have sought peace by yourself. Please don’t tell me you are driving each other mad- grow up, both of you.   

Call into the mirror when you get this, I have it tucked into my trouser pocket so there’s no way I wont hear it.   

Speak soon!  

Harry  

Sirius grabbed the wand and did as he was instructed, cooing Harry’s name until his godson’s face replaced his own grinning reflection.  

“Sirius!” Harry beamed, “you’re okay!” 

“Of course I am, Harry,” Sirius winked.  

“Where are you anyway?” Harry squinted, trying to peer around to get a better view of what was behind him, “are you in bed?” 

“Uh, yeah, in a cottage.” Sirius explained, trying not to sound too evasive, “I followed Severus to an island, I’m not sure where it is, if I’m being honest.” 

“So... he’s okay too, is he? I can’t believe he’s alive after the last time we saw him in the Shack.” Harry asked quietly.  

“He could be better.” Sirius admitted, “it’ll take him a while to be one hundred percent I guess.” 

“I can imagine.” Harry shuddered visibly, “and you’re not... threatening to kill each other, right? You’re not...” 

“I’m on my best behaviour, Harry.” Sirius pressed, “I... I know I was wrong, how I was with Severus before. I was awful. I’ve been behaving better. I want to make amends, before I go.”  

Harry looked like he wasn’t sure if he believed him or not.  

“Where is he now?” Harry asked. 

“We’re not joined at the hip, Harry.” Sirius laughed.  

“Where are you ?” Harry asked again.  

“In bed at the moment.” Sirius laughed, trying to think of what to do today, “I’m going to fix the back door today. I ... broke it-” 

“That’s not suspicious at all.” Harry interrupted. 

“It seems easy to fix, well, Severus fixed the hinges before. Hopefully I can replace the lock without his help this time.” Sirius smirked to himself, “he seems a lot more... handy than I am.” 

“Well, you grew up in the richest of magical families in Grimmauld Place, and Snape grew up in a muggle house that- in the memories I saw anyway- looked like it needed to be repaired regularly to stay standing up right.” Harry compared with a grin, “is it really a surprise that he’s handy ? He didn’t have Kreacher to fix things for him, did he?” 

“Well- neither did I!” Sirius laughed, “Kreacher hated me as much as I hated him. But I see your point.”  

For the rest of the catch up, Harry asked questions about his withdrawal and how he was managing it. Sirius tried to change the subject, getting Harry to speak about what he was getting up to instead, as this was always going to be a much brighter topic of conversation. 

“Well, Molly and Arthur are planning a holiday and they’ve invited me, Ginny, Ron and Hermione too.” Harry smiled, “so there’s a lot of getting ready for that too. But I can’t remember the details off the top of my head, Molly is organising it all, she said we just need to turn up.”  

“Ah, yes, a holiday with the in laws,” Sirius winked, “better you than me.”  

“We’ll have to set you up with someone when you’re back, Sirius, get your own romantic life on track so you’ll be less interested in mine.” Harry joked.  

“I’m long passed my prime,” Sirius tried to joke, feeling a pinch of honesty in his words, “don’t you worry about me, I hope you have fun on your holiday Harry. Hopefully I will be back before you head off so we can see each other in person.”  

Harry smiled as they both said goodbye.  

. . .  

Sirius poked the broken garden door, watching it swing open with ease on its new fixed hinges. The door handle and locking mechanism was too damaged to shut, so the door swung back and forth on the wind, loudly bashing against the wall whenever a strong breeze struck. He had placed his boots by the door to keep it from being too noisy and too cold in the night, but it appears that Severus had moved them when he went for a walk.  

Why couldn’t he have just used the front door instead, Sirius tutted. He peered out at the grey skies above and wondered what was going through his head to think a walk in this weather was a good idea. He guessed he had gone for a walk because of how he had woken up that morning, the chill of the rain a pleasant distraction from the embarrassment he probably felt about the kiss, or their sleep induced cuddling... 

Sirius couldn’t help but smirk, wanly, at the man’s exit.  

He went to the cupboard beside the sink, pulling out the spare bits and bobs that he had found in town in the last two days that could be considered a tool kit. The screw driver he had been shown how to use, the nails. He decided he would unscrew the door handle from the broken back door, to take into town and get an exact replacement.  

The new skills he had absorbed were such a novelty to him, it was no exaggeration that Sirius Black had grown up in a world richer than he had understood. Manual labour- fixing and replacing broken objects- was unheard of in the House of Black. He chuckled to himself, remembering how he had tried to put so much distance between himself and his family growing up but had evidently held on to the class privileges.  

If he had wanted to rebel, all he had needed to do was learn how to use a tool kit, or stitch his torn school robes, or get a job... the things that Severus had to do. His own hypocrisy left a red-hot tinge of embarrassment to his cheeks, and suddenly ...  

A walk in the cooling rain sounded not quite so questionable or confusing to him.  

. . . 

Severus had made his way into town, he had purchased a few bags of bulbs and seeds and gardening equipment that he had not seen scattered or left behind in the garden outside the cottage. He had lingered by the book shop and once again found it impossible to go inside.  

The town was much emptier in the downpour of the rain. He preferred it that way.  

He had stood beneath a small sheltered seat, facing the roaring sea. He didn’t know how long he had sat there, within the brick walled, brick roofed, wooden seating alcove. He just watched the waves hypnotically. He could have slept, listening to the waves, feeling protected by the walls, cocooned by the alcove.  

He remembered the journey he had taken to get to Drobhna and this was the first time he felt it had all been worth it.  

He remembered the bus journey from his now demolished home to Cokeworth; the train ride to Liverpool; the ferry to Lorne. At each and every stage of his journey he had been afraid. Afraid that he would be seen, noticed, captured. Afraid that the destination at the end of this journey would have been a lie. A trap.  

But Drobhna was real. He had to keep reminding himself this. He wondered if there would ever be a time, sometime in the long future – if he lived that long- where the reality of his world would be an answered question.  

And now, now that Black had said he would leave alone... Now that he was sat in this alcove, out of view, hidden by the bad weather...  

He could feel the peace. Believe it.  

He sat, watching the sea for a while, just embracing this novelty, this unknown.  

. . .  

Eventually Severus stirred from his seated position on the bench, a chill shaking him awake from a nap he had not known he had taken.  

He checked himself, his pockets and his bag, relieved that he had everything he had with him when he had sat down. He certainly wasn’t in Cokeworth now, where a man stupid enough to fall asleep in public was a man who woke up without a wallet.  

He stood up, stretching his wiry muscles and birdlike bones. The rain was a gently spray now, a mist on the grey sea. He would be fine to walk home in this, back to the cottage.  

He could just about remember the way, he narrowed his eyes, recalling what he could of the journey into town. He picked up the bag of bulbs and seeds and began making his way through the cobbled streets of town, parting ways with the sea for now. The walk through town was a strain on his legs, the uphill stroll pulled on what was left of his muscles. But eventually the floor plateaued and became gentler, his booted feet finding ease with the rocky pathway that had been made through the meadows, through the brambles and trees.  

And then the sky opened up, a torrential downpour that flooded from the air to the ground, soaking Severus wet through with rain.  

In shock at the drastic change in weather, he sprinted for the cottage he could see just up ahead. Rushing through the open greenery, taking care not to slip on the soaked mud, the full pelt of the rain drowned him, drenching him from head to toe, his wet clothes sticking to him.  

He made it to the garden door, expecting to push it open with ease and finding it fixed and unmoving.  

He shook the handle, realising it had been fucking fixed and it was locked from the inside. 

With a growl of annoyance, he turned to make his way to the front door on the other side of the house, rummaging through his wet coat pocket for the keys when a voice called out to him.  

“It’s open now! Come in!”  

He turned, seeing Black stood inside, having unlocked the recently fixed backdoor for him.  

He forced himself to move, to get inside, to get into the dry and the warmth.  

Black closed the door behind him. 

“What is the matter with you going out in weather like this?” Sirius asked, using his wand to summon a towel from the bathroom, tossing it to Severus as if it would make a difference.  

“What good is this when it’s flooding outside?” Severus tutted with a sigh, tossing the towel back to him as he shuffled out of his wet coat.  

“It would help to dry your hair at least.” Sirius threw the towel back at him. 

Severus left his shoes by the door again, placed beside where Sirius had placed his own 

“ When did you fix the door?” Severus asked, rubbing his long black strands roughly, using the towel to shield his face from Black, unprepared for being in the same space as him despite knowing the man would be there.  

“I went into town before the rain struck,” Sirius spoke, “I brought the broken lock with me to show the shop keeper and she gave me an exact replica, even demonstrating how to replace it on the door.” 

Sirius’ face sunk slightly when he realised that Severus was not going to thank him for fixing a door he broke.  

“Did you get your parcel?” Severus asked. 

“Yes, it was from Harry.” Sirius’ smile returned, his grey eyes lighting up, “he’s fine. He’ll be going on holiday soon.”  

“How riveting.” Severus lifted the towel from his head, his usually lank hair static with the friction, “don’t use that owl again, it lobbed the parcel towards the ground.” 

“Nothing was broken in the parcel,” Sirius sighed in relief, “but I might not need to use the owls again, Harry sent me his Two Way Mirror to chat-”  

“I’m going to take a shower,” Severus informed, wanting to get out of the cold damp clothes and to get space from Black. 

He knew that he was being... rude.  

He knew that he was being unpleasant, ungrateful, distant.  

But he didn’t know how else to be.  

He didn’t know how to behave- if that kiss, or that embrace in bed had meant anything.  

He closed the bathroom door shut, locking it for good measure. 

His heart pounded behind his chest.  

He hated the clinging feeling of the wet clothes against his skin. In the safety of the locked room, he began to strip his shirt and his trousers, shivering as he switched the hot water on for the shower, steamy water falling as hard as the rain had done outside.  

Thick clouds of condensation grew, giving him a sense of coverage as he stood naked beneath the hot water, enthralled by the feel of the heat on his bare skin, his hair soaked again.  

The shower stream felt like hands massaging his scalp, stroking his shoulders, his back, teasing the cleft of his buttocks with drips...  

He imagined Black stood behind him, his vision so powerful that he had to turn around, just to make sure he wasn’t really there.  

It was all in his head.  

He reached for the bottle of body wash, hand shaking as he massaged the foam into his hair, he tried to focus on the task at hand, of cleaning himself- 

But all he could see behind his closed eyes was Black behind him, his hand reaching around him to stroke and tease his hardened cock; his biting mouth against his buttocks, causing him to shiver at the sensation of imagined teeth dragging against his skin.  

He washed the thoughts from his head, rinsed the images, pushed it back out of his mind, his erection stood out against his stomach, the water brushing against the sensitive head causing him to need to steady his breathing. 

Switching the shower off, he immediately wrapped himself in a towel, opening the window in the bathroom to let out the fog of condensation. The sound of heavy rainfall filled his ears, in replacement of the heavy fall of shower water that had ended. He felt the cool air against his face, drinking in the sensation. He felt his thoughts cool down with his body.  

Drying himself with the towel, he felt himself freeze as he realised he hadn’t brought a change of clothes in with him to the bathroom. His wet clothes were unwearable. He would have to leave the bathroom in a towel, cross the hallway to his bedroom and get dressed. The idea of colliding with Black in the hallway was...  

Something he needed to stop.  

It was not worth considering.  

A man who looked like Black, Severus reminded himself, would want nothing to do with a man that looked like him.  

The awareness of this should not have stung so sharply inside him, Severus thought, angry with himself, angry at his foolishness, his weaknesses, his neediness, the trembling of his self-control. It was as if he had deluded himself into thinking Black might consider him just attractive enough to fuck, out of boredom, out of lack of any other options available. He was not, and he was deluding himself into entertaining the thought. He tightened the towel around him, wrapping it around him twice, the thing was obnoxiously large.  

He unlocked the bathroom door and ignored the disappointment inside him that Black was not stood outside- 

He made his way to his bedroom, kneeling down to the holdall on the floor, trying to find something to wear and wondering if he should unpack. He emptied the bag of his meagre belongings, his clothing, and stacked what he wasn’t going to wear into the cupboard to sort out another time. He was about to close the large wardrobe door when he heard footsteps along the floor of the hallway, making their way to the bedroom. 

“Severus, can we talk- Oh.” Sirius felt his voice cut out as he met the sight in the room.  

He stood frozen, as if he was, once again, a rabbit caught in the eyeline of a hunting dog, outside in the wet meadows.  

Sirius saw his black hair pushed back, damp from his shower, revealing his secret pointed ears.  

Sirius knew he should say something, anything. He knew he should finish his sentence... but his mouth felt heavy and he realised he was salivating at the sight of Severus, the knowledge that he was naked beneath that too long towel.  

He stepped forward before he could think, his feet acting independently to his mind as he stepped closer towards Severus.  

The man unmoving, unretreating.  

But not stepping forward to meet him, not moving- frozen.  

He looked into those black eyes and saw uncertainty. But above all, in the deepest depths, he saw a baiting shimmer, a dare to him to do the things that Sirius so wanted to do at that moment.  

Without breaking eye contact, he found himself stood before Severus, close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest beneath the towel, to practically hear the thump of his pulse.  

He reached out, his palm placed on his bony shoulder, his face leaning down towards his. 

He still did not move.  

Sirius’ breath hitched inside him, his chest swelling as he tried to steady the frantic allure building within him. He felt Severus melt against his palm as it rose to his face, cupping his cheek. Sirius brushed his bearded face against his smooth jawline, his nose brushing against his temple as he finally found his voice, his words a whisper against Severus’ ear.  

“Tell me to stop.” Sirius whispered, wanting nothing of the sort, knowing he would never recover, never recuperate from Severus’ rejection if he were to tell him to stop.  

He graced his lips against his ear, kissing the points that drove him wild- this secret part of Severus that he had never known, and only he knew about, Sirius decided.  

Sirius felt his hands tighten against Severus’ shoulders, the sphere of his bones tucked perfectly in his grasp.  

And he heard Severus gasp. The sound so elicit, so delicious, Sirius wanted to devour him just to taste the gasp again.  

He felt fingers press on top of his hands, gently plying him of his grip. Sirius paused his kisses along his ear, freezing as if realising he had gone too far, had misread the situation, had made a grave mistake. He felt Severus’ fingers lift his hands from his shoulders, their eyes meeting once again.  

“I’m sorry, I-” Sirius began, about to pull away and retreat.  

He watched as Severus unwrapped his towel from his shoulders, the large cotton wrap unwinding from his body and then sliding to the floor.  

Sirius felt his eyes fall with the towel, witnessing its drop, his eyes eating his bare body with delirium, as a starving man would meet his uttermost desires.  

Fingers unbuttoned his shirt, some his own, some Severus'. His belt buckle clicked as it came undone, his clothing dropping to the floor.

And then there were lips on his own lips, a hot, eager mouth pressed against his. Sirius pulled him inward, hands frantically seeking every part of him as they kissed. Hands sliding down from his bare shoulder blades to his lower back, tantalisingly slipping and grasping at his cheeks, short nails digging into tight flesh.  

Hands ran down his own shoulders, cautious, tentative, as light as a blush as his palms met his chest, Severus’ lips trailed his jaw, his collarbone, inciting groans from him. Bodies pressed tighter, chests hot together, pelvis’ brushing, aroused cocks brushing impossibly hard against the other.  

Severus felt lost, his thoughts and sanity swept away in the rush of arousal and sensuality, of the tension tightening, the pressure releasing, the shock, the catastrophic shock of eagerness, of carnality that Black was meeting in equal measures with his own. Before he could attempt to hold onto a single thought, he felt his body pushed down onto the surface of the bed, the sheets an array beneath him.  

He wondered if he had been discarded, dropped, as if Black had come to his senses, had realised what he was doing and how absurd this was. As if he felt ill at the realisation of what he was doing, kissing Snivellus, brushing aroused cocks with Snivellus, seeing the disgusting broken body of Snivellus.   

He closed his eyes. 

Being pushed away, after the taste of bliss, caused a bruise to settle where his heart lay. 

A pressure landed around his waist, a presence, warm and heavy. He felt hot breath against his jaw once again, a searing kiss, eager and biting. Pausing, hesitating.  

“What’s wrong?”  

Black had the audacity to ask him what was wrong- as if anything about this entire situation was right? 

“I thought you changed your mind.” Severus spoke, a quietness, against the lips that met his.  

“No chance of that.” Sirius smirked into his lips, plying his mouth open as his hand sunk between them, wrapping his palm around both of their achingly hard cocks.  

The shared thickness, the shared friction, the shared stiffness... He felt Sirius begin to stroke them both in tandem and he cried out breathlessly, shock and stimulation blitzing through him amidst the rejection he had felt for just one moment, so painfully. Pleasure and pain coursed through him, indistinguishable from the other, as he heard Sirius groaning and grunting against his ear as he bucked his hips into his grip.  

A roaring of bliss transcended through Severus as he heard the man above him, his eagerness, his interest, his desire to draw the same from his tense form. His hands instinctively lowered down his broad shoulders, his back, pulling him closer as his long hands dug into his taut buttocks. His head buried against Sirius’ chest, his cheeks blushing as he gasped into Sirius’ touch, his stroking hands leading him to a death so blissful, so devouring. His thighs parted, bracketing around Sirius’ legs, tightening around his form as his body became so wound up from the inside out- 

“You’re so hard, so fucking hard, for me.” Sirius groaned, a whisper, a commentary that boarded on a taunt against Severus’ ears.  

The tension richotched through Severus’ chest, a warning, an alarm that blared like a klaxon through his marrow. And yet he could not pull away, he could not stop his own cock from hardening even more. He could not stop the tremor that ran through his skin like a chill at Black’s voice against his ear. He gripped on tighter to his shoulders, buried his face deeper into his chest, a cry slipping from him as Black stroked the sensitive tip of his cock, hurriedly, frantically, driving him to the edge, dragging him to the abyss- 

“Moan like that for me, please.” Sirius begged, voice strained by his own desire, his own untethered ecstasy, “you’re going to make me cum.” 

Severus brushed his face against his chest, the hair on his chest adding friction that he needed to feel, needed to press against as his body grew so hot, his senses so alight he thought he might burn. He felt a shifting above him, a hand gripping hold of the back of his head, a gently tug of his hair that pulled his face away from the soothing chest, directing him to peer upwards. 

Grey eyes loomed over him, cheeks flush with desire, lips parted, breathless groans escaping from those lips. Severus could not escape those eyes, a trap that had been set so Black could ensnare his lips with his once more. He felt crushed beneath those lips, his broad body, his unbelievable beauty. He groaned, his narrow hips bucking into Black’s tight grip, his palms stroking him, his own hands tightening around Black’s shoulders, short nails embedding within his skin as he cried out into that kiss.  

His body unfurled, sunk into the mattress as his orgasm shot from him in streams- it had been so long, so unbelievably long since he had felt so good. His stomach was coated in the slick cum that slipped from Black’s hand, his hand still stroking, still hurriedly chasing his own orgasm with Severus’ cum as lubricant around his achingly hard cock. Severus cried out at the overstimulation, the sensations that were drawn from him from beyond, beyond his own capacity to feel, he was overdrawn, spent, in Sirius’ hand as the man finally groaned out and released in a sweaty mess, anointing Severus’ stomach with the dripping seed.  

He felt the hot mouth against his parted lips continue to kiss, a softness that contrasted with the bristling feel of his beard against his skin. He was in a daze, incapable of thought, incapable of words, as his body shivered beneath the heat of the body above him.  

He dared not open his eyes, dared not watch as Sirius realised the mistake he had made. He did not want to see the regret, the disdain, cross the other man’s face, that he would be so desperate as to release onto him, of all people. He imagined him, half a year from now, back in England, smirking as he thought back on how unhingedly desperate he had to have been to do what he did. Perhaps he would tell people, a confession of the most embarrassing sex he ever had, the biggest mistake he had made out of arousal- 

He pushed Black off him. Not roughly, just matter of factly. He sat up and covered himself with the towel he had dropped, wrapping it back around himself.  

This time he grabbed some clothes to change into. Making his way back to the shower to clean himself up.  

Leaving Black behind in the bed before he could say another word.  

Chapter Text

Sirius puffed on a cigarette as he explored the outdoor stalls of an old junk shop. 

 Occasionally, he would raise his eyes and see the elderly shop owner fix his eyes on him as if expecting Sirius to grab a book, half held together by scotch tape, and dash off without paying him for it. Sirius rolled his eyes, his mood already tilted downward with gloom, he didn’t need a grotty old junk shop seller thinking he was a petty thief to make him feel judged.  

Not when he had Severus avoiding him, glaring at him as if he had done something wrong every time they did happen to be in the same space for a precious few seconds. 

He had allowed himself to feel, to wish, to dream.  

The moment he had seen Severus, wrapped in that ridiculously large towel in his bedroom, he was ensnared, entrapped. He had lunged at the man, the feel of his mouth against his... Their bodies pressed together. He had reciprocated what had happened, it had been something shared, Sirius sighed, so why did he feel so guilty? Why was Severus behaving as if they had done something wrong?  

Taking his last puff on his cigarette, he stubbed the end out and watched the trail of grey smoke eradicate beneath his foot. He used his wand to make the litter disappear, sensing the shop keeper would have him black-listed from the premises if he didn’t. Now that he had stopped smoking, he decided to browse the indoors of the unusual premises, his eyes landing with a brow raise at a table that appeared to be covered in things that had been dredged up from the surrounding sea.  

He was browsing the shop simply because he needed something to do. Severus was avoiding him- and he was not the chattiest, friendliest person towards him historically, let alone in recent days.  

Sirius had spent the last couple of days jogging along the promenade of the town, taking sea-side sprints as a means of focus and getting back something akin to the level of fitness he had in his youth. The first day had been humbling, his legs stiff and his lungs working overtime to keep the oxygen travelling within him. But this morning, he was in better control of his breathing. He didn’t feel sick after a long run. He was taking a break from a jog, exploring the junk shop he had seen on the edge of town.  

He lingered in the shop, simply because the man kept a suspicious eye on him.  

He wondered what exactly it was that the shop keeper was fixating on, to think he was a shop lifter. Was it the tattoos? Was it the loitering? Was it the fact that he had not nodded a hello to him as he browsed the stalls outside, where other customers had done? Was it simply that he had smoked around the merchandise? Either way, Sirius found it amusing that the shop keeper probably read him as a shop lifter when his family name was wealthy enough to buy the entire island with small change.  

He saw a rolled-up parchment on a table and lifted it, watching the paper unfurl before him. 

 His curiosity led him to hold the two ends of the parchment open, his eyes exploring what he discovered to be a map of the island. He found the town centre beside the docks, the shoreline. He saw the meadow lands, the crowds of trees where Severus’ cottage was located- the cottage itself obviously not on the map. Sirius had a fascination with maps, so finding this map of Drobhna was like finding treasure amongst the junk in the shop. His eyes greedily traced the outline of the island, the paths and the landmarks he would otherwise have never known.  

“How much for the map?” Sirius called out, eyes incapable of letting go of the parchment: finding a lighthouse, a ruin, dark warnings around a forest... 

It was thrilling.  

He would pay anything to own this map. 

Turns out, the shop owner only wanted an equivalent of fifteen Knut for it.  

. . . 

Severus had locked himself into the spare room, having stored himself away like one of the potion ingredients lined up in jars on the shelf. He had slept on the sofa again last night, the living room was slightly more comfortable now that the garden door had been repaired. Despite the slight improvement in comfort, Severus continually woke up early out of habit. Needing tea. Needing healing potions. He took both into the spare room and sat down at the desk by the window, reading.  

He wondered when he would start making potions again. More than the healing potions that were necessary for both himself and his unexpected houseguest.  

He used to have so much energy, so much ambition, so many ideas sparkling in his mind for the things he would create when he had the time and space.  

Once upon a time, he had energy but no time or space. But now, he had all the time in the world, all the space he could need, but he was depleted. He could just about follow the printed sentences typed out on the pages before him. And the book was hardly the stuff that challenges were made of: a silly classic, all countryside and romance. It should have been easy to read, but he found himself staring out the window whenever the leading lady found her corset being undone by one of the suitors competing for her attention. He pushed the book aside, his black eyes looking for something to fall upon outdoors.  

The meadows that surrounded the cottage was full of wild flowers. Red valerian swayed on the breeze, like fallen pink clouds; oxeye daisies bounced on long stalks, their large yellow florets weighing the white petals down. Tiny blue dots of forget-me-nots sprinkled in clusters across the damp field. A line of trees stood in the distance, tall white barked birch trees that protected a world of brambles and thistles between the meadows and the sea-facing town centre. He was about to try and pick up the book again when his attention was caught by an approaching figure stepping closer and closer, his face obscured by a large piece of parchment.  

It could only be Black, Severus knew, and he wondered what on earth had captured his attention so thoroughly that he could not wait to read it until he was sat down in the kitchen, or the living room. Anywhere that he was not, Severus thought, slightly too firmly to himself. He peeked over the edge of the book, trying to pretend that the book he was attempting to read was as captivating to him as the parchment was to Black.  

Severus was aware of how tall Black was, the man towered over him, despite the difference only being a head between them. His character added to his height, Severus conceded. His broad shoulders, his excellent posture... Severus watched him through the window, the lace of the white curtains shielding him from the outdoor world, letting him watch Black as he approached.  

He had been avoiding Black since that inexplicable encounter they had shared in the bedroom. He didn’t know what to say, or do; simply because he didn’t understand what Black was doing. His behaviour was unpredictable. He didn’t know what to say. Severus suspected that Black had tried to speak to him earlier that morning, his footsteps stopping just outside the door of the spare room.  

He remembered the tension that had built up within his chest, the thought of Black knocking on the locked door...  

He had nowhere to go, Severus had thought at the time, he had nowhere to escape if Black did step inside the room.  

If he had unlocked the door.  

A part of him, the part that he did not want to acknowledge in any capacity, wanted Black to knock, to twist the door knob, to kick down the door as he had the garden door...  

But he had walked away.  

And the next time he had saw him, he was jogging away from the cottage, in the opposite direction of the way he was walking back now.  

He heard the back door open and close, both men preferring to use the garden door rather than the front door, simply because it was closer to the pathway that led towards town, if only by a meter or so. Through the walls of the spare room he sat in, he heard the tap being switched on, water flooding into the kettle. A few moments later, he heard the click of the gas hob ignite, Black making a mug of tea. His eyes fell to the half empty mug beside him on the desk, the tea long cold as he had forgotten its existence until now.  

Why did he have to feel thirsty now?  

Now that Black was obviously in the kitchen, head submerged in a mysterious parchment...  

He had spent the last two days avoiding him successfully, but now it seemed their paths were going to cross.  

. . . 

The kettle was screaming as Severus walked in, Sirius oblivious to the whistle of steam that was filling the room quickly. He rushed over to the hob, lifting the kettle off the heat and turning off the gas before the water evaporated and they were left with a burnt base. Sirius picked his head up from the detailed parchment at the flash of dark clothing stepping passed him. He pushed his chair back, as if attempting to get up and remedy the situation.  

“Sorry- I got distracted.” Sirius explained, stepping over to Severus, his hand almost self-concsciously pressing his wavy hair from his face, “let me sort that out. Did you want a cup of tea as well?” 

Severus nodded, making his way to the small kitchen table where he had sat and ate stew with Black a few days ago.  

Where he had learned of the outcome of the war, the things he had never seen, had not known.  

He had been more inclined to sit around Black that day, as frustrating as he could be. Despite the fact that he had tied him up and left him on the cold floor their first day on Drobhna. Despite the fact that he had left him alone for hours, incapable of taking the healing potions he needed. That behaviour was predictable, understandable. In Severus’ mind, this behaviour made sense to him in ways that this... this change did not.  

He focused his attention on the same distractions that Black had been focusing on: the parchment.  

It was a map.  

Severus tilted the parchment towards him so he could see it clearer, his own curiosity enticed by the map of the Drobhna, showing him the parts of the island he had not known and likely would not be able to see.  

His exhausted body would not cope with exploring, would not be able to apparate back to the cottage in an emergency. His eyes trailed the black ink on the parchment, longingly, reminded somewhat by Black’s tattoos as he traced the black ink so saturated on the paper it seemed that the ink had been stabbed into the pulp. He wanted to look away, at that reminder, but found himself incapable. 

A mug of tea was placed before him.  

“I found it in the junk shop on the far end of town, beside the broken boat that’s moored on the shore.” Sirius explained, sitting down beside him with his own mug of tea, “it’s a map of the island, in case... that wasn’t obvious.”  

Severus found himself giving a look to him, a look that once upon a time would have been dark and foreboding, as if to tell Sirius he was a total idiot if he thought he could not work out something as simple as that... 

“There’s the town centre, by the shore line.” Sirius carried on, taking the opportunity to lean a bit closer to Severus as he pointed out the landmarks, “over here-” he pointed to the meadows and trees not too far from the shoreline- “would be where this cottage is.” 

Severus found himself fascinated by what existed beyond the path that led from town to the cottage. His eyes surveyed the further scopes of the island, what he presumed to be the lesser populated parts. A part of him wondered if he needed to burry himself further into the island, further away from the somewhat busy town, to feel safer. He saw a lighthouse and wondered why this was positioned on the opposite side of the island to the town- away from the mooring and docking of transport ships and portboats. A lighthouse would make more sense on this side of the island, not there. 

Ruins existed nearby the lighthouse, so old that the map depicted them as ruins rather than what they once were. Severus wondered if it used to be a castle, or a library, or a mausoleum...  

And then his eyes were drawn to the black expanse of trees, a note of warning etched down, the words unintelligible beside the forest. Mysterious. A dark curiosity. 

Sirius watched Severus carefully, seeing the curiosity and intrigue on his expression. He had seen this look many times, Severus’ head in a book at school, and, most despairingly, when he had told him how to access the tunnel to the Shrieking Shack... when he had thought so little of his life that he had risked his death in a transformed Remus’ company for what he had called a prank. 

 He looked away, taking a quick sip of his too hot tea, his bottom lip stinging with the heat.  

“I’m thinking of going exploring,” Sirius eventually spoke, “get a good look of the place before I go back, I guess. I’ve seen about as much of the town centre as I can.” 

Severus listened to his plans with longing, with envy.  

The limitations of his broken body was not something he could ignore.  

“You’ll have to tell me about it when you make your way back here.” Severus spoke bitterly.  

“... You don’t think you’ll be going exploring yourself?” Sirius smirked, “not even long after I’m gone?”  

“I can just about walk to and from the town. And that knocks me out.” Severus tutted, a flash of humiliation on his face.  

His weakness was unavoidable, undeniable. To pretend otherwise would make him a fool.  

Sirius saw the disappointment in his eyes, the curtailing of his physical limitations. He spoke before he could think- 

“Come with me, if anything happens, I’ll be there to help.”  

Severus froze.  

“I don’t require your pity, Black.”  

“It’s not pity I’m offering.” Sirius spoke, as carefully as if negotiating with a bomb, wondering what wire to cut to diffuse the situation, “I would like you to join me-” he looked at the map and remembered the dangerous looking woodland etched onto the parchment, and pointed, “these trees look a bit dark and deadly, I might need some assistance getting through it all. I might not make it back in time to get the portboat home, if something were to happen in these trees.” 

“It would be a shame if you were to finally meet your timely end before the portboat arrives and takes you home.” Severus admitted. 

“... Don’t you mean ‘ untimely’ end?” Sirius smirked.  

Severus rolled his eyes, the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips suggesting he didn’t quite mean what he said.  

“Can I tempt you to join me?” Sirius asked, his eyes steely and determined, his chest tight with anticipation.  

He hadn’t known he wanted to go on a hike around the island when he woke up this morning.  

He hadn’t known how much he wanted to explore Drobhna until he had seen the map.  

But the thought of exploring alone was a disappointment he could not carry: he would prefer to stay at the cottage, despite his boredom, as long as he was close to Severus...  

“I don’t think I am in any position to assist you, even if you did need it.” Severus confessed quietly, as if needing Sirius to know that his presence would be a burden.  

That his ill health was a heaviness within him that he dragged around, that Sirius would not want to drag with him.  

“I will only slow you down.” 

“I have almost a month,” Sirius countered, “I would prefer to take it slow, to take the long way round.” 

Severus took sips of his tea, a sense of confliction mulling around in his head.  

It didn’t make sense that he wanted to go with Black.  

It didn’t make sense that he wanted to explore the island with a man who had hurt him so much.  

A man who had hurt him for so many years but had not balked at the sight of his exposed body two days ago. 

A man who was behaving so unpredictably that he didn’t know what to expect from him anymore.  

It seemed dangerous to even consider the idea.  

In his mind, Severus saw Black dragging him to somewhere secluded, somewhere he could not escape.  

In his horrific nightmare visions, he was back at Hogwarts again, wanting to be outside amongst the trees and the lakes, punished for the audacity of wanting something, humiliated for daring to be in public. He had tried so hard to stay inside as much as possible, in the Slytherin common room, in his dorm, in the library, the potions lab... At some points in the year, he never got to see the sun. All because of him- 

“What is wrong with you?” Severus snapped, trying to shake the sick feeling from within him, to dislodge the choking flashbacks from his mind so he could just breathe.  

“ What ?” Sirius spluttered, in shock at the sudden outburst, sensing that he had cut the wrong wire in this negotiation. 

“You know what you are doing, Black. Most people who tormented a person for years, after supposedly apologising for this, would have the grace to just leave the person alone.” Severus stated with a glare, “not find new ways to torment the person because they are bored-”  

“Severus, I appreciate that you might not believe me. I would find it hard to believe me too, if the shoe was on the other foot. But I am deeply sorry for how I treated you at school, and as an adult.” Sirius spoke firmly, “I thought after- after what happened... you would understand that-” 

“I understand nothing about you, Black. You defy logic, predictability and sanity.” Severus tutted firmly, avoiding eye contact. 

A heavy silence filled the kitchen, the pressure crushing both men. Severus focused his black eyes on the garden door, once broken, now repaired. He wished, so deeply, that everything could be repaired as easily as the door had been repaired. He wished he didn’t have feelings, wished he could stop hurting, it cost too much energy to hurt like this. And it wasn’t as if his feelings had ever mattered- so why have them?  

“Look, I can’t force you to believe me.” Sirius spoke softly, after a while, “but I will do everything I can to demonstrate to you that I mean it. I- I really do want you to join me, not only because there’s safety in numbers, but because I saw the way you looked at the map. You want to explore this place too. I can help. I want to-” 

“You can’t always get what you want, Black.” Severus interrupted quietly, a statement rather than a criticism of the man before him who had indeed grown up with everything.  

“That may be true. But what about what you want?” Sirius redirected, trying to catch his eyes, his focus, his attention. He leaned in, “I was there, Severus. I know... you know we both wanted what happened. We both know how it felt-” 

“I sense you are wandering off topic.” Severus spoke drolly, squashing the foolish, regretful excitement of memory within him.  

He looked at Black, the handsomest man he had ever known. A man who, effortlessly, commanded a room, commanded attention, admiration, affinity.  

He saw how... disappointed he was.  

Severus felt his brow knit together in confusion, to see that his rejection of Black’s proposal- and the subtext within it- had struck Black deeply.  

It gave him a feeling he had never known before, one he could not name.  

It was as if he had somehow managed to catch Black’s attention, but not in a way he had ever known before. It was different. Powerful. But it was not power he knew how to use so it disabled him further- it was a power he had no muscle to command. It was wasted on him. If it even existed.  

At the very least, Severus just wanted to walk, to explore the island, the have this place feel more like a home with knowledge and familiarity. He could only do so with Black’s support, however... begrudgingly, that was unavoidable.  

Sirius sat silently, lost-footed on how to proceed.  

His disappointment was heavy on his brow, a big lump in his chest that tasted of just-deserts. He had this coming, he knew, he was a fool to even speak about what happened between them, to make it obvious that he wanted more. He felt so transparent, so invisible, Severus looking right through him as if he truly, utterly didn’t matter to him at all- he wasn’t even worth hating, just blankness- 

“So, when do you plan to depart?” Severus took a sip of his tea.  

Sirius looked at him like he wasn’t sure he was hearing accurately.  

“You are here for a... limited amount of time.” Severus stated stoically,  “perhaps it would be prudent to make use of your presence during that time. Before you go.” 

Sirius couldn’t help but wonder how much use Severus was going to draw from him. His words caused a stirring in his groin, a fluttering in his stomach. The possibility that Severus could mean more than accompanying him on his adventure, that their encounter a couple days ago had done something to giving Severus a reason to spend time in his company...  

All he needed was a reason, and he would have a chance to show Severus that he meant it.  

“As soon as I can get hold of some tents.” Sirius said, a faint lick to his lips of anticipation, “I’m going to go into town and get the supplies sorted.” 

Sirius drained his tea quickly, leaving the kitchen whilst he had Severus right where he wanted him: in agreement for once. He felt Severus’ eyes drag on him as he fled the kitchen, sprinting through the garden door once more to jog to town, a thrilling throb of excitement in each step, wanting to get the job done before Severus changed his mind.  

. . .  

Severus sat at the kitchen table a little longer, unsure what had happened, unsure why exactly he had... agreed, despite himself, despite the obvious and evident peril of his choice. He felt like the situation had grown... out of his own hands. He wanted to explore the island and this was, realistically, the only way.  

He also wanted things he did not feel brave enough to say aloud.  

He wanted the opportunity to explore the island with Black. His imagination ran wild with the desire that threatened to spill uncapped within him.  

He smirked to himself, perhaps this was Black’s plan all along. He wouldn’t need to drag him back to England; if Black touched him again like he did two days ago... he would end up following the man back to the Ministry of Magic, practically hypnotised.  

His body had been starved of human contact, of touch, for so long and now he had been given a taste of what this felt like all he wanted was more.  

Even if it was Black.  

Especially if it was Black.  

He stood up from the kitchen table and picked up the drained mugs left behind by himself and Black, carrying them to the sink to wash. He ran the water, flowing cold before warming up in the washing up bowl. A few plates were stacked in the washing up bowl, the things that Black had used in the two days he had been avoiding him. He added the washing up liquid to the hot water, whirling it until it bubbled and began washing up the dishes.  

He realised that he had not cleaned the cottage since he had arrived and he suddenly felt revolting. That sort of lazy behaviour would never be tolerated in Spinners End. A day leaving the dust to settle just meant more work for the next day. This was his home now, this cottage. He needed to look after it.  

He knelt down by the cupboard beneath the sink and found a well-stocked supply of cleaning products in the charmed space, expanded to accommodate a mop and bucket and bottles of bleach and sprays. 

He had always cleaned the muggle way. Cleaning seemed a waste of magic- and now, using magic was more energy-expendable than the physical act of scrubbing. He carried some bleach to the bathroom and the toilet, pouring some down the basin and bowls to settle before he returned later on to scrub. He sprayed a lemon scented cream around the sides of the bath to wash afterwards.  

Next, he carried the worn clothes from his room, from where he had placed them beneath the bed before he had felt ready to unpack. He found a stack of worn clothes that Black had tucked away and decided he would wash this too- a half load of washing was unheard of. He peeled off the duvet covering, moving on to the pillow cases before pausing as he saw something unexpected.  

It was a black shirt, tucked away under the pillow that Black slept on when it was his turn to sleep in the bed at night. It was a black shirt, and Black didn’t really wear dark clothes. The shirt itself was also not the right size for him-  

It was his shirt, Severus realised. He recognised the small signifiers, the small details that made it his. What was this shirt doing here? It wasn’t something he had brought with him...  

Why was it underneath a pillow he did not use?  

Severus lifted the shirt, finding it crinkled and creased, imbued with sweat and blood from his time healing at Spinners End. He realised, if Black had been the one to bring this shirt to Drobhna, then it meant that he had been inside his childhood home.  

The thought of a man like Black, heir to the richest magical family in Britain, in his slum shack of a house was laughable, in a grim sort of way. But, again, he was the joke.  

He put the shirt in the pile to be carried to the washing machine in the kitchen, finding spare sheets in an alcove by the toilet. Spare towels were stacked in the same space.  

Once the washing machine was running, once the bleach was settling in the bathroom, he got to work on the tasks that did not take so long to complete: cleaning the countertops, the kitchen table, the hob, his arm muscles beginning to strain with the effort but he could not stop.  

Cleaning was a distraction, a necessity, a requirement.  

He made his way to the living room to dust and clean, slowly moving his way through the rest of the cottage. His focus was so resolute, so blinkered, on the mop smearing pine scented suds across the hardware floor that he didn’t notice the sound of Black returning from town.  

He didn’t notice his energy levels stumble and drop to the floor, tripping on an internal pot hole once again. He sunk to his knees, the mop clattering to the ground. Severus felt the wet floor soak through his knees, his trousers damp with the scent of pine: pacing his breaths, trying to gather his energy reserves, not wanting to pass out again if he could help it.  

. . .  

Sirius stepped into the kitchen and was confused by the humming sound, the click and clank of a mechanical drum he could not identify. He followed his ears, finding the culprit: the muggle washing machine that had been charmed to work with magic instead of electricity. He watched the suds swirl around with clothes, noticing a pair of his socks spin in the soapy water.  

Severus had been cleaning since he had left to walk into town, Sirius noticed, the surfaces of the countertops still damp with the antibacterial spray that had been used, lemon scented. He noticed the kitchen floor had been cleaned too and he immediately took his boots off, placing them by the door and using his wand to erase the dirt-tinged footsteps he had left behind on the still well floor.  

“Severus...?” Sirius called out, stepping cautiously over the wet floor as if he thought he might slip.  

He stepped out into the hallway, peering into the living room and seeing that small room had been cleaned too- Severus had been busy since he ran into town to get supplies for their adventure... 

He had found a tent- the shop only had one. Admittedly, he didn’t press it to ask for two... but he had plausible deniability to say he had tried to find two. He had found supplies to shove in his backpack, he wanted to carry as much as possible to keep Severus’ bag as light as possible.  

Looking down the hallway he found Severus attempting to lift himself from the floor, using the mop in his hand and the wall to support him. He made his way over to him, seeing a flash of misapprehension on his face.  

“What happened?” Sirius asked, taking the mop from his hand and letting him hold himself up by leaning against the wall.  

“Nothing.” Severus responded quickly.  

This was just normal for him now, this weakness, these energy potholes he stumbled into blindly without warning. This was who he was now: a broken, useless, wreck.  

Sirius moved the mop out of the way and stood aside, offering the crook of his arm to help him walk to the living room to sit down. Severus rolled his eyes, reluctant to take it, refusing to despite awareness of his state. He had his pride. His pride and not much else, he sighed, despondently.  

“I got supplies for the adventure around the island,” Sirius tried to offer a happy distraction, “we can leave tomorrow if you like.”  

Severus felt his head lower at the crushing disappointment he felt at the fact he was so incapable of making this journey. How he had managed to get from Cokeworth to Drobhna was a mystery to him. It was as if he had used every speck of his energy, every flint of life, to make it to this place and now he was empty. Drained- he felt entirely drained.  

As he sat down on the sofa, he landed with a thump as his legs gave way.  

“Can I get you a cup of tea?” Sirius offered, kneeling beside him, watching the exhaustion weigh him down to the back of the sofa, his head resting cautiously.  

When Severus did not answer him, Sirius watched him carefully, his eyes heavy with a sadness that was so apparent Sirius could not look away, he wanted to fix whatever was going on with him.  

“I got a tent.” Sirius began, forcing a small grin to his face, “But, unfortunately, I’m sure you’ll agree, there was only one tent left on the entire island. You’ll have to suck it up and sleep with me.” 

When Severus did not react to his blatant provocation, he became genuinely concerned. 

“Severus, what’s happened?” Sirius asked quietly.  

“Nothing.” Severus repeated, a croak to his otherwise deep voice that stung Sirius in the heart, “this is just what I am now. I can’t even clean without almost passing out. You will have to go without me.”  

Sirius felt the sadness in his words, recognising that this sadness was beyond the disappointment of believing he could not explore and indulge his curiosities about the island. It was deeper than this- it was a confrontation with what was left of his physical body after the war. It was facing an unchanging reality of chronic weakness, perpetual depletion, unsteady health... The war had asked so much of him, Sirius learned, and it continued to take its debt from Severus. He placed a hand on his knee, trying to communicate comfort through his warm palm, trying to offer something to help.  

He wanted to lift his legs and let him lay down on the sofa, prop his head up with a soft pillow, make him cups of tea and toast- and then something occurred to him. 

Whilst Sirius knew that Severus’ disappointment was the product of  his war injuries, upon reflection, Sirius suspected that Severus had done very little to prevent this episode of energy loss. When was the last time he had actually eaten? 

“I think if I went without you, you would end up not eating the entire time I was away, starving to death and wondering how that happened.” Sirius joked lightly, “ have you actually eaten anything today?”  

Severus shrugged, searching through his memories of the day and noticing that he had not. He shook his head in confession.  

“Do you, perchance, think that you would have a steadier source of energy if you ate more regularly than you do?” Sirius asked, noting the eye roll from the man.  

“Do not patronise me.” Severus shook his hand off his knee, shuffling away from his touch.  

“You can be very dramatic sometimes, Severus. Stay put,” Sirius smirked, standing up, “I’ll make you tea and a slice of toast. Just eat it. See how it feels.” 

Before Severus could protest, Sirius was out the door leaving Severus on the sofa incapable and unwilling to chase him.  

Severus felt a spark of anger inside him, a bitterness that Black could simplify and reduce his exhaustion to mere hunger, as if he was a stupid child making a fuss over nothing. It only made him feel worse, embarrassed, as if his reality was not what it seemed.  

He took a deep breath, his inhalation filtering the spite from the atmosphere and powering himself up. He forced himself from the sofa, finding the shakiness of his legs a worry he pushed to the back of his mind. He made his way to the kitchen as the washing machine finally stopped, the locking mechanism clicking out of place to allow the door to be opened.  

Sirius spun around from the toaster, watching him pull the wet clothes from the drum and drop them into the laundry basket to hang up.  

“I told you to rest.” Sirius spoke with firmness.  

“Noted.”  

Severus closed the washing machine door shut, the slight slam deafening in Sirius’ ears. His attention was caught by the popping of the toaster and the shrill hiss of the kettle. With a sigh, he made the tea and buttered the toast, attempting to convince Severus to sit down and just take care of himself in one small way.  

When he saw the man attempt to drag the heavy laundry bag to the garden to hang the washing up to dry, he lost it. He marched up to Severus who flinched at the immediacy of his proximity, the shock of his presence so near. He snatched the basket from Severus hands, carrying it over his back to the garden door and yanking it open, almost risking damaging it once again with his frustration.  

“ I will hang the clothes up- if it’s so important that it is done now.” Sirius barked, turning his head back to see Severus stood by the doorframe watching him in wonder, “sit the fuck down and have a bite of toast before you drop. You’re being a fucking nuisance not looking after yourself like this.” 

The frustration leached from his fingers as he hung each item of clothing up on the clothes line. He felt each drip of annoyance as he grabbed the clothes pegs, stabbing them in place to hold up each pair of socks, each set of shirts...  

Finding himself guiltily confronted with the black shirt he had taken from Cokeworth, the shirt he had inhaled as he stroked himself off, the shirt he had hidden beneath the pillow he slept on when he used the bed... picking up the bedsheets he realised that Severus must have found it when he changed the bedding to be washed.  

“Why do you have my shirt, Black?”  

Severus’ voice called to him from the doorframe, the man holding a slice of nibbled toast.  

If Sirius had felt he had gained any power and authority over Severus in that moment, having bemoaned him into taking the small steps towards self-care, it was gone in an instant with that question.  

He was not normally a man who felt shame, he was not normally a man who got embarrassed- but, he was also not normally a man who huffed the deliciously sweaty scent from shirts of unsuspecting men to use as he masturbated... He was not the type of man to have secrets like this.  

Sirius lifted his eyes from the clothes line, pretending he didn’t hear the question, noting the peculiar, almost amused, look in Severus’ expression when he didn’t answer.  

“How’s that toast?” Sirius called out instead, attempting to change the subject.  

Severus watched him hanging up the washing, amused by his actions, wondering if he had ever hung clothes up to dry like a muggle before or if this was his first time. He watched him work, the focus on his face telling him that he was unused to tasks like this.  

He wondered why he was bothering to do this, incapable of absorbing that Sirius might be taking over the task simply because it would mean he would spend time on sustenance for the first time that day.  

He thought it was just Black just showcasing all the things he could do, his body much healthier and energetic compared to his, even with the withdrawal.  

He thought all this and it finally occurred to him that he would go to the ends of the earth to think the worst of Black, even if a more humane explanation was within walking distance.  

Even if the positive explanations were closer to logic and reason.  

He was used to thinking the worst of Black and... he was being shown evidence to the contrary on an almost daily basis since they had arrived on Drobhna.  

It shook him to the core.  

His mind expanding to consider what he would think of a man like Black, if he had known this side had existed long before. If he had grown up without torment by Black and Potter, if Black had just shown him this kindness instead of the hate he had always known. He felt annoyed, frustrated- the man was evidently so capable of care, so capable of compassion but he had made the choice to do everything he could to destroy him at school.  

Maybe it was him, Severus thought, maybe it truly was his fault the entire time?  

Everyone had acted as if he was to blame, as if it was his fault.  

He walked away from the garden door, depositing the plate of half-eaten toast and mug of tea on the kitchen table and slinking down the hallway to his bedroom. Exhaustion meeting depression as he stepped inside the room alone. 

He buried himself away beneath the clean bedsheets.  

Burrowing away as if digging himself a grave in the quilt.  

He felt his breath hitch in the dark, his breath quickening as the oxygen diminished beneath the tucked in sheet. He felt his heart constrict, his eyes wet with what he recognised to be tears and felt ashamed of his body once more.  

It had been his fault, all of it.   

His history had been revised and his pride eliminated- the pride that had insisted that Black and Potter had been cruel bastards, it was all gone as he had seen the kindness that Black could be.  

He felt his body stiffen, his limbs heavy and weak- forever fucking weak, a burden. He felt the physical burden within him, a dragging boulder he didn’t have the energy to carry. The thought of asking for help, of needing help, was repulsive because he believed that he was repulsive. The thought of having Black help him was too much. 

He remembered standing on the edge of the fenced edge on the ferry to Lorne, looking overboard deep into the sea. He remembered wondering if he should accept himself to the crushing weight of the waves. To just stop his worthless existence rather than carry on.  

He had been afraid that Drobhna was not real at the time.  

But now he knew that Drobhna was real- and it was he who was not made for it. He was too broken to travel the island independently, too damaged to make it into town without tiring.  

From his place, buried deep beneath the bedsheets, suffocating beneath the weight of his own misery and despair, he did not hear the door to the bedroom push open, he did not see Black stand and stare at his scrunched up form beneath the quilt.  

Sirius had not notice that he had disappeared until he had finally finished hanging the washing up. He had assumed he had just made his way to the kitchen to finish his toast, but had seen the discarded half-eaten plate left on the table with the abandoned mug of tea.  

The cottage was not large enough for him to hide forever, Sirius had assured himself, making his way from the empty kitchen to the empty living room and down the empty hallway, passed the empty bathroom and toilet.  

He sat down on the edge of the bed, his weight causing the bed to dip slightly, alerting Severus to his presence.  

Sirius had the sense to take a deep breath, to read the room and react according to what he could see before him- the truth, rather than the projections he made about Severus in their history. He wanted to see the truth and only the truth. He wanted Severus to see his truth.  

He placed a hand on what he presumed to be the bony hip buried beneath the clean new quilt.  

His hand stroking him gently, unmistakably. 

He felt Severus tremor beneath his touch, wilting in the warmth of his palm. It pierced him, Sirius realised, to feel this cracking despair course through his palm. He could think of nothing more to do than lay down beside him, curling his body around his, their bodies divided by the bedsheet. He felt him tremor deeper, sad waves of grief and misery rocking through him as he sniffed, confirming to Sirius that the man was gravely upset.  

He had tried to help, Sirius thought in despair, tightening his hold around Severus’ slight and padded frame, he had tried to help and he had made things worse. He had made him cry.  

“I’m sorry.” Sirius whispered.  

He wished he would say something. Anything.  

He wished he would shout, yell, seethe at him- if that was what it took. 

“I was trying to help and I went the wrong way about it.” Sirius felt his own voice tighten in his throat, his own eyes water, “I just... I know you wanted to explore the island, and, admittedly... I really wanted to do this with you. But I should listen, rather than call you dramatic. I am sorry-” 

“ Why are you doing this ?” Severus finally spoke, shuffling upwards to face him, to finally try to understand, to define this unpredictability once and for all, “ why are you being ... nice ?” 

“Nice?” Sirius repeated, wrong-footed by this admission, “I don’t understand-” 

“ I don’t understand.” Severus repeated, black eyes genuinely, appallingly lost.  

“I can be nice.” Sirius grinned wanly, his grey eyes meeting those sad black abysses.  

He rose his hand, pressing the palm that had stroked his hip to stroke his face, his cheekbone as sharp as his pelvis.  

“You can be. That much is clear to me now.” Severus admitted, almost a whisper, “That you weren’t before... it was my fault that you weren’t before-” 

“Hold on, that’s not true, is it, Severus. I have admitted that I was wrong, that I had behaved appallingly to you.” Sirius narrowed his eyes in sincerity, seeing the cracking and splintering of sense in Severus’ eyes.  

The man would blame himself for anything. 

He stroked his face, watching his eyes close into his touch. The sadness caved in by his closed eyelids.  

He felt dampness as he pressed his thumb against his cheekbones, tracing the damp to his eyes like a horrifying discovery.  

He was faced with his poor choices, his wrong actions, the hurt he had caused: it lived and festered within Severus, an anchor as damaging to his sense of self as his war injuries were damaging to his body. 

“When I apologised, when I have tried to behave better to you, I didn’t intend to make you feel worse,” Sirius whispered, incapable of holding back his own quiet tears from the brim of his eyes,  “I didn’t want to make you cry.”  

Severus turned his face away, ashamed to have his emotions seen.  

“You don’t... know the way I feel about you, do you?” Sirius broached, daring to put his feelings on the line as Severus had done the same with his tears, “you don’t see it, do you?” 

Severus did not speak, did not dare to speak. 

The unpredictability was too much for him.  

He tried to fill in the blanks of what Sirius was saying, trying to anticipate the worst that would happen. In his mind, he saw Sirius stop what he was doing, stop stroking his face so soothingly, so wonderfully, just to smirk and laugh at him for being tricked so easily.  

In his mind he saw Sirius call him disgusting and hideous, a murdering, pathetic monster – 

But instead, lips met his own, the unexpected crashing against him. The kiss soft but crushing him with its potential, with its dreams- the things he didn’t want to dream, to think about, because he had always felt ashamed for the feelings that existed within him for Sirius, this unrequited affection that had been dormant all these years.  

Severus felt lips against his, his own parting into the kiss. He felt Sirius’ palm reach around the back of his head, drawing him closer, their kiss evolving into something harder, needier. He gasped at the shock, the explosive shock within his chest at the contact, the connection. He felt fingers grasp and tighten around his locks of hair in response to his gasp, his reaction.  

And then those lips pulled away, a slow separation that left the heat of his lips behind.  

“Have I made myself clear now?” Sirius asked, quietly, hesitantly, hand still stroking the back of Severus’ head.  

“ No .” Severus spoke, a loss of clarity within him, “when, exactly, did you go from hating me to ... this?” 

“I think it was when I was tasked with dragging you back to the Ministry that it became undeniable.” Sirius confessed, “although I went to great lengths to deny it to myself. I could not envision a situation where these feelings would be... returned.” 

Severus could not believe what he was hearing. 

It was as if he was in a different world. 

A different existence.  

“Are they, Severus?” Sirius found himself needing to know, needing to hear it from him, “ are they returned?” 

Severus met Sirius’ grey eyes and in those eyes he saw something he had not anticipated in his entire life, in any life. He saw honesty in those eyes, he saw truth. Being a Legilimens, Severus had the ability to know when someone was being truthful, even without accessing their mind and memories. Somehow, he could see what Sirius was offering was true and real and not a trick- he knew that Sirius was not an Occlumens, and Severus knew when someone was occluding.  

This was real. 

He found himself leaning forward, leaning in, his own lips brushing softly against Sirius’ lips. His own hands found the wavy locks of hair that hung around his shoulders. He felt Sirius’ eagerness within the kiss, a building excitement in the knowledge of what this kiss meant.  

Sirius smiled into his lips, his teeth revealed in the smile, the kiss drawing to an end as he rested his forehead against Severus, the contact so intimate his smile widened with a joy he hadn’t known possible.  

“I am in shock.” Sirius confessed, smiling too much to kiss, a scenario he had never experienced before.  

Severus could not find his words. Momentarily speechless, he just enjoyed the sensation of having his skin touched without danger, without violence. He just enjoyed the feel of skin against his own, a hand on his own hand, a head against his own. This contact was like nourishment to him, healing a part of him that had been starved of meaning. His exhaustion, his weakness, it still existed within him- of course- but he held on to this moment with all he had.  

“Lay down.” Sirius spoke suddenly, a protectiveness for the man unleashed to its full extent, now that they had spoken, now they knew their feelings mirrored for the other, “you still look tired.” 

Severus rolled his eyes, unaccustomed to having someone care about his wellbeing in such a way. He watched as Sirius patted the pillow, encouraging him to lay down, to rest.  

“I’ll get everything packed for the adventure.” Sirius promised, gazing down at the man, amused by his slight shocked expression, giddy with the summersaults that had evoked from the events of this day.  

It seemed whatever it was that existed between the two of them, Sirius mused, would be tumultuous- up and down from hot to cold to hurt and smiles and back again. 

He could not wait for the adventure- an opportunity to explore both the island and what this was, a chance to show Severus that he was a better man for him. He leant down, kissing Severus on the head, trailing down to his lips, ecstatic that he could do things like this, wild that he was allowed to do so.  

He felt a hand on his hand, holding on to him.  

He met the darkness of those eyes, finding a light in the dark that he had not seen moments before.  

“Stay.”  

His voice was a whisper, passing through his lips like breath.  

Sirius was close enough to hear. 

He felt incapable of denying this request, this one simple word. He read the man’s tired face, the exhaustion and the vulnerability and sensed, between the lines of this one word, that he wanted to be held. To ask with more words was too difficult for him, Sirius realised, removing his trousers and shirt to no protest from Severus. He slipped his way beneath the quilt where Severus had buried himself and found caution and tentativeness, starving need and vulnerability so open it was as physical as the unhealing wound wrapped up in bandages around his throat. Sirius lay down beside him, the novelty of this intimacy so exciting to him. He extended a hand and felt Severus entwine his fingers around his. 

It was at that moment that Sirius understood that he had everything he had ever wanted and everything he hadn’t known how much he had wanted, laid down beside him in this bed.  

He wanted it all, he wanted every part of Severus, every single bit.  

He turned to sunshine as he felt Severus shuffle closer to him, eventually resting his head against his chest, his hand on his hand still as Sirius wrapped his other arm around his shoulder. 

As Sirius breathed in, reality seeped in like dust upon the beauty of this moment for him. It occurred to him that wanting more, wanting it all, was dangerous, wanting more was inviting heartache when he would be gone so soon.  

He remembered the tickets he had purchased for the portboat, the first day he had arrived. The day he had wanted nothing more than to rush back to England to finish his job. The tickets he had tucked away in his bag. He remembered what he had left for him in England, what was left of his family. He remembered the reality of the circumstances that had brought him to Drobhna in the first place- this was not a romantic fairytale, he had been given a job by a potentially dangerous man who he had been fobbing off with lies and misdirection in each brief evening update call through the Two-Way Mirror.  

He could not continue with this farce any longer, he had to get rid of the mirror, get Runcorn off his back, off the trail.  

Give Severus the peace he fought for and knew, without a shred of doubt within him, that he deserved.  

Chapter Text

It was a full moon and Sirius could not help but feel sad at the sight of the ashen white blur in the night sky. All the stars were visible from Drobhna, he noticed, with such little light pollution on land the sky was alive with glowing dots and sparkles. He was surrounded by the black of the sea, the waves gentle and caressing of the cliff edge he stood upon as if aware that they needed to be quiet for what Sirius was about to do.   

He was about to hold the Two-Way Mirror to his face and lie to Runcorn for the last time.   

He was about to burry the scent that he left that the man was relying on to chase Severus; he was going to end this. He had not ended it earlier, when he had first arrived on Drobhna, because he had been certain that Severus needed to face justice, he had believed all the things he had been told about him- despite Harry’s protests and defences for him. Over the days he had kept in Severus’ company, he had held on to the Two-Way Mirror out of habit, out of unconcern. Lying to buy himself time.   

He was ready to quit his one and only job, he smirked to himself. Carrying the hand-held mirror out of his coat pocket. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the silver coated item to his face, his reflection filling the surface alone for a moment. He had a worry in his face, as if he was about to face a challenge he was unsure he could meet.   

He was not much of a liar- more of a convincer. But Sirius knew that he could not convince this man that Severus was innocent- the man already knew this. Runcorn didn’t want anyone else to know this as Severus’ innocence had the capacity to destroy his pretences at innocence. Severus knew he was more involved in the war than he had told, he knew the claims of the Imperius Curse was a lie.   

“Right on time, for once, Black.”   

Runcorns voice caused him to flinch into action, the stern face staring back at him in the mirror made him know he had one shot at pulling this off and getting him off his back once and for all.   

“We don’t all have the privilege of sitting on our arses all day to work, Runcorn.” Sirius forced himself to smirk.   

“ Well, you would know all about privilege.” Runcorn laughed, a cold bark of a laugh that sounded unnatural and threatening, “ I am glad to have made contact with you today. My leads have run into a bit of a dead end in Norway and I was hopeful that you have made progress with catching our elusive little snake.”  

Sirius felt himself bristle beneath the fake comradery that Runcorn was laying on to him, his attempts to reiterate their so-called common enemy in Severus. He felt Runcorn’s beady eyes on him, watching him carefully for the appropriate responses and reactions. Sirius pretended he was only here for business, as if he had turned his ad-hoc tracking task into a career and had adopted professional standards.   

He remembered the fake trail he had set up, the path he had plotted in his mind for Runcorn to take his ‘leads’. He took a secret deep breath and began.   

“I have followed Snape to the mountain town of Kili.” Sirius spoke, remembering the childhood holiday he had experienced in this very place, recalling stories of how inhospitable the mountains could be this time of year, with the approaching winter.   

Particularly the cave trails that had been carved out millennia ago, his father regaling tales of lost souls in the mountains like myth and legend.  

“I have him cornered, I think.” Sirius pretended to puff up his chest with satisfaction, “there is nowhere else to go except the mountain walk if he wants to try to get away. And he is weakened, his trail has become sloppy. The mountains are a dangerous place for someone injured. I think I will have him within the next few days. I will be making my way to the trails at dawn.”   

“ I am pleasantly surprised to hear such a positive update.” Runcorn smirked, “ I will await your return with baited breath.... I wonder, however, given the danger this mountain poses, as you have described, whether sending reinforcements may be in everyone’s benefit. We wouldn’t want you to risk injury and we do want Snape returned to the Ministry alive after all.”  

“I can handle this. I can transform into a dog, after all.” Sirius spoke quickly, returning to the goal of the conversation at hand, “but, I suppose, if something does happen to me, you’ll know - I don’t answer the Mirror. You could always send reinforcements in that case.”  

“ I do hope I don’t have to make contact with a next of kin, if you do experience an accident on this job.” Runcorn said, and Sirius felt ill at the proximity Harry suddenly was placed in Runcorn’s mind at that moment.   

He hadn’t thought about Harry in this mess- why would Harry even need to be involved?   

“I don’t want you worrying anyone-” Sirius began.  

“ It is my responsibility to ensure the safety of those helping me, Black. Don’t worry, if something happens, I will keep Harry Potter kept in the loop.” Runcorn offered.   

“Well, don’t rush and worry him over nothing.” Sirius insisted, forcing a grimacing smile as if he was really grateful for Runcorn’s concern for his welfare.   

“I will use my discretion.” Runcorn assured, a smile on his face, enjoying the play-pretend of employee relations, “ well, best of luck with the mountain. Until tomorrow.”  

“Until tomorrow.” Sirius repeated, a final lie, before the Two-Way Mirror finally cut out and the surface reflected his own face again.   

He was glad to be almost free of this, but he knew he now needed to get in touch with Harry to pre-warn him and let him know there was nothing to worry about if Runcorn actually did make contact with him when he couldn’t get hold of him in the next few days. He hated the thought of involving Harry in this- it wasn’t his intention at all, but he couldn’t let Harry walk into this unprepared.   

Because Runcorn would never get hold of him again, Sirius assured himself, pulling a pillowcase from his coat pocket. It was one of the pillowcases that had been drying on the line, the laundry that he had angrily hung up when Severus was being a stubborn fool and ignoring his health. He placed the Two-Way Mirror into the pillowcase, tying up the end so the object could not escape where it was going to land.   

His grey eyes rose to the night sky again, to the great white moon above.   

He thought of Moony and the grief was so thick within him he wanted a drink so terribly. The loss was like a bullet wound through his stomach, a wound he endured despite the ache because it was his only connection he had left to his old friend. He hadn’t visited his grave. He hadn’t been able to face it at the time before he had left to chase Severus.   

He looked into the moon and remembered the hard life his friend had endured, the unfairness of his lycanthropy. He remembered the fun they had with Moony when he transformed, his mind lost to the transformation each month. He never remembered what they got up to, Sirius knew, but he had seen how he had enjoyed the company in hindsight, he had enjoyed the fact that he was not alone at least.   

But, like all things from his youth, he didn’t take people’s feelings seriously. He had looked forward to the full moon each month, relishing the excitement and the novelty, the cleverness of their animagus forms- the loopholes they had found to run out after dark with Moony. He had not appreciated how horrible the transformations were for Remus in their youth. Moony had never gone into detail, out of shame, secrecy, necessity.   

He sighed, his eyes dipping into the deep dark waves that brushed before the cliff edge.   

He swung his arm, the pillowcase containing the Two-Way Mirror in his hand.   

He shot the thing out into the high tide, a satisfying swing to his throw.   

He watched the pillowcase fly through the air, the light of the moon guiding it into the depths of the crushing waves.  

There was a sense of... lightness that resulted from his decision to dispose of the Two-Way Mirror. He had handed the arrangements of his untangling from Runcorn over to time- as each hour to pass, his association with Runcorn would become an embarrassing memory.   

In a day or so, Runcorn might begin to think something had happened to him; in another day he would send reinforcement- and if he meant it when he said he would contact his next of kin, he would speak to Harry. In a week or so, when he didn’t make contact, when his body could not be found in the mountains or the cave... He would be written off as dead once again.  

When he returned to England when the portboat finally turned up in the docks of Drobhna, he would spin a story about how he had been in a cave in, rescued by a hiker who took him in to heal, finally returning to the Ministry to let Runcorn know what happened and that he had given up the task of finding Severus because he had better things to do with his life than chase an elusive, slippery snake.  

He supressed the anger he felt at hearing Severus referred to in such a way; wondering if he had the right to feel this anger. He had called him much worse, of course. But he had grown, he had understood now that he was wrong- so much so that even hearing Severus blame himself for how he had been treated earlier that day had appalled him. He wondered if it would have appalled him as much if he had heard this before the Veil, if he had heard him say that when they had been at school together. All he knew for sure was that hearing Runcorn call him a snake had made him... agitated.   

Would he have realised how wrong he was for his youthful behaviour much earlier if he had been confronted with reality years before? Or would he have not been ready, still a hypocrite, still a heartless little bastard finding fun in torment? The torment he had put Severus through had been cut from the same cloth as the amusement he had gained from Moony’s furry little problem. The same inability to see people as fully actualised, with all the internal workings of depth and substance that he himself enjoyed.    

The silver lining, he sighed, making his way back to the cottage through the dark, was that he was able to recognise how terrible he had been. He felt disgusted by his own behaviour, and that could only mean he had grown to know how terrible it had been.   

He was a better man now- he was protecting the people he cared for and not inflicting pain onto others in the process.   

.. .  

He didn’t expect Severus to be awake when he returned from his walk to the cliffs.   

He could see that he was up and awake by the warm glow of the candle light from the kitchen window and the small firefly spark of a lit cigarette from where he sat on the doorstep to the back garden. As Sirius walked closer to the cottage, he couldn’t help but smile at the realisation that Severus was there- and he even went so far as to convince himself that the man was sat outside waiting for him to return, rather than simply having a cigarette after waking from his recuperative nap.   

As he passed his way through the meadows into the garden, in the shadows he noticed that the laundry had been brought inside. He had planned on bringing this in later on, perhaps in the morning, but, as he felt a fine mist of rain begin to descend upon his face he was glad for Severus’ foresight to get the job done sooner.   

A sudden coyness slipped over him. A childlike shyness, making him not know how to behave or react around Severus. He felt his pace slacken as if his body was attempting to give him time to figure this out, to collect himself and remember that he was almost forty years old and should have outgrown the adolescent giddiness of being attracted to someone and being in their presence. His teenage self would be utterly lost in this moment, he found himself unable to hold back a grin on his face, imagining his idiot younger self faced with the unmistakable desire he carried for the man currently sat on the doorstep sucking on a cigarette.   

“Your sleep cycle is all over the place,” Sirius commented, leaning against the wall by the doorframe.   

He felt the roughness of the brickwork of the cottage against his shoulder blades and his lower back, his eyes lingering on the sinking of those cheeks, those lips around the filter of that cigarette. He lifted his face to the spraying rain and felt the warmth of his cheeks cool down.  

“What’s new.” Severus tutted, exhaling a grey cloud, the smoke rising towards the night sky and dispersing into air.   

He pulled a ready rolled cigarette from his shirt pocket and offered it to Sirius.  

“No, you’re alright. I’ve just had one.” Sirius declined politely.   

“Where did you walk off to?” Severus asked, his eyes lingering on the faint ring glowing at the diminishing cigarette he held.   

He wanted a mug of tea but was comfortable sitting where he was, enjoying the breeze, the faint rain.   

“I had some business to take care of.” Sirius sighed.   

“How very cryptic.” Severus commented, snickering inwardly.  

As if Sirius was dangling a secret before him, expecting him to bite.   

Sirius looked down at him from his standing position, his height difference so stark when Severus was sat down. He looked at him and it occurred to him that the Two-Way Mirror might actually be something Severus would appreciate knowing about. To need to know about. If the two of them were... whatever it is that was happening between them, Sirius could not put a name on it, but he believed that keeping a secret like this was hardly congruent to what he would like them to be.   

“There’s something I think you might want to know.” Sirius began, the words spilling from his mouth before he could think properly.   

He saw a flash of alarm cross Severus’ eyes as he peered upwards, he saw him reel his composure back. Sirius began to wonder if he had been mistaken, as if bringing up the Two-Way Mirror, bringing Runcorn up, might cause him unnecessary anxiety. If there was such a thing as too much honesty, decapitating honesty, Sirius felt he was about to know.  

Sirius took his coat off and sat down on the floor beside Severus, seeing a glass like brittleness to his dark eyes in the night. He did not mean to leave him hanging, Sirius tried to find the right words.   

“That business I had to do. I was throwing away a Two-Way Mirror.”   

Severus did not break eye contact, did not appear appeased by this detail. Tension continued to beat across his pulse, waiting for the floor to open up and bring hurt and harm.   

“Why would you do something like that? Potter delivered the Two-Way Mirror to communicate with you.” Severus tried to understand.   

“It was a different mirror.” Sirius elaborated, “when I- when I first accepted the job of finding you and bringing you to the Ministry, Runcorn needed a way to receive updates. I guess he doesn’t have it in him to produce a patronus and wouldn’t know how to send messages the Order way. Obviously. So he gave me a Two-Way Mirror to give him these updates.”  

Severus listened to these words and held the cigarette to his lips, his eyes not leaving Sirius as if expecting him to burst out into ropes and binds and drag him back to England that very moment. As he held the cigarette to his lips he realised it was burned out and he reached for the unused cigarette that he had saved for Sirius, tucked away in his pocket. Nervously, he lit the new end and waited for the bad news to continue.   

“I gave him updates up until I got to Drobhna.” Sirius confessed, “when I really was hunting you down. I told him that I had found signs of you in Cokeworth. That you had been seen at the station going to Liverpool. I put two and two together and realised then that you were making your way to Lorne, to the International Portboat Marina.”   

“How very intuitive.” Severus commented.  

Perhaps he was lucky he hadn’t been caught earlier.   

“I suspect that these updates are how Greyback and MacNair knew to go to Northern Ireland.” Sirius confessed, a guilt he had repressed released inside him, that he had made Severus’ life harder, “I didn’t know that they were involved. I thought I was the only one working for Runcorn.”  

Severus watched him carefully, absorbing the news. Finding it ... helped to slot things into place. How Greyback and MacNair had known to find him at the docks at Liverpool. How they had known he had made his way to Northern Ireland, how Greyback had known he was going to Lorne.  

He remembered the exhausted journey from the muggle docks to the magical village. He remembered the sound of the coast and the bluster of sharp cold wind against his body, finding a beach hut to pass out and rest within, for shelter. He remembered the sound of the motorbike screaming and stirring him into alarm, him rushing into the trees and being ambushed by the brutish beast of a man.   

“Why are you telling me this?” Severus found his voice.   

Sirius met his eyes again, having looked away as he spoke before.   

“I thought you should know. It felt like something I was keeping from you, and it concerned you.” Sirius explained, “I didn’t want a secret like that ... existing between us.”  

Severus had not expected this, had not expected to hear something from Sirius that revealed a respectfulness such as this. It was one thing to want to fuck someone, it was quite another thing to want ... trust .   

“Have I upset you?” Sirius asked directly.   

“No.” Severus said, after deliberation, “what you have said has helped to make sense of things that did not make sense to me at the time.”   

“I hope they didn’t manage to get near you,” Sirius said suddenly, “was the moment at the docks at the magical village the only time?”  

Severus looked away, finding it difficult to talk about the journey he had made from Spinners End. It had felt so impossible, each step of the way. Each hour had been exhausting, physically and mentally and emotionally, he had expected to fail. And the moments of conflict and confrontation had been a fright, it was a shock that he had escaped each time.   

“You was present in Liverpool, I believe.” Severus turned to face him briefly, to confirm if the big black dog was indeed Sirius in his animagus form as he had suspected.   

“I ... was a bit drunk at the time, but, yes, I do remember seeing you- I forgot that the other two were there. I just remember seeing you.” Sirius sighed, his memories a bit of a blur despite the desperation he had to succeed with his task.   

“There was a second time.” Severus spoke quietly, feeling sick at the thought of sharing the terrifying moment in the trees. He wanted to raise it, make it meaningless, not a secret inside him that made him ill, “when I arrived in Lorne.”   

He continued, his heart thumping too quickly, the second cigarette held to his lips as he used the thing to steady his breathing.   

“I walked from the marina to the village, but I needed a rest. I took shelter in a beach hut along the shore.” He closed his eyes, as if feeling the blustering wind against his face again, hearing the waves crashing back and forth. The smell of the night.   

“I was woken by a loud motorcycle noise,” Severus carried on, rolling his eyes, “it startled me awake and I left the shelter, thinking it unsafe to stay.”  

“Ah... was this motorcycle noise quite late...?” Sirius could not believe the coincidence, but he had taken the coastal road to Lorne and he had not seen any other motorcycles as he went.  

He saw Severus nod in response.  

“Well, another confession: that motorcycle was probably me making my way to Lorne. I had landed in Belfast and rented a bike.”  

Severus exhaled deeply, the coincidence was almost funny. That Sirius had come so close to finding him. He wondered how different their lives would be, if he had been caught halfway between the marina and the magical village of Lorne.   

“As I was saying, an obnoxiously loud motorcycle woke me and I carried on my way looking for the village.” Severus continued, he found himself pausing, finding it hard to take the next part of the story lightly. Unsure if he could even talk about it. But then- nothing happened. Something almost happening was not the same as something actually happening, he chided himself, feeling melodramatic.   

“What happened?” Sirius found himself asking, a sickening tension in his stomach at Severus’ shift in tone.   

“I went into the trees, believing it would be safer to get off the road.” Severus remembered, “but Greyback found me. He chased me, I tripped in the dark, on a root.”  

Sirius watched him smoke, a tightness in his hand, his jaw that told him this conversation was stressful for him. He found himself lifting his hand, stroking the back of his hand, trying to find a way to sooth him, trying to figure him out like a tactile map. He saw Severus’ eyes meet his for a second, looking away before ending the story abruptly. Unable to continue.  

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Severus announced, dismissively, “I made it to the village. Obviously. It was nothing.”  

“You made it to the village.” Sirius repeated, knowing that there was more to this story than what had been told but he wasn’t going to get any more from him at that moment.   

Greyback was a violent creature, hardly worth the title of human. He had attacked Remus as a child, for fucks sake, Sirius looked up at the moon. It was not beyond disbelief that Greyback had hurt Severus too-  

“Did he bite you?” Sirius found himself blurting out, afraid for another person to suffer as Remus had done so.   

“... Sirius, are you really asking if I was bitten by a werewolf, when we are out at night during a full moon?” Severus tilted his head, wondering how a man so smart could jump to such conclusions.   

Sirius chuckled darkly, a flash of foolishness tinting his cheeks.   

“I realise that was a particularly stupid question,” Sirius said, “I guess I just... I was worried. That you had been hurt.”  

“I don’t think I can get used to you saying things like that.” Severus confessed with a small sad smirk, finishing his cigarette and looking up at the stars, landing on the moon.   

“It is quite a difference.” Sirius agreed, with a small almost sad smirk, “but it’s true.”   

For a moment both men sat together in the dark, in the quietness of the garden around the cottage. If they closed their eyes, the sound of the waves could be heard, slow and soothing in the distance. The spraying rain stopped, a brief shower that passed by without fanfare. The air carried the rich scent of petrichor, the rain damp grass smelling fresh on the breeze. In the peace and quiet of the cottage garden, Severus felt it was possible to believe Sirius when he said his concern had been true.   

Severus opened his eyes and looked at Sirius, the man’s grey eyes looking at the moon with such focus. A glisten to his eyes, his gaze, a mournful howl in his expression. And it occurred to Severus that Sirius was sad at that moment, a grief to his posture, weighed down with the inversions of a loss that had taken so much from him in the war. Severus understood grief, he understood loss.   

As stark as it had felt to hear Sirius’ concern for his safety, his welfare, Severus found himself equally incapable of looking away from the man without trying to offer kindness in the face of this loss.  

“I am sorry that you lost your friend.” Severus acknowledged, recognising what the full moon would mean to him.   

Sirius looked down at his feet, finding it almost sweet that Severus could offer his condolences about a man who had been as much a problem to him as he had been. His grief right then must have been so obvious, so unavoidable. He felt it, a roughness at his throat, a tightening in his chest that felt like a blockage of tears and screams inside him. He wrapped his arms around his knees, not able to say anything.   

And then he felt a hand stroking his, the back of Severus’ hand brushing timidly against the back of his hand, palm gripped onto his trousers. This hand brushing against his was a mirror to how he had tried to sooth Severus moment ago.  

He lifted his head, facing Severus with his heartache on show, his choking grief almost visibly etched into the lines of his face. Sirius felt so seen and so open at that moment, as if his skin had turned to glass and Severus knew it. And he did not look away. Those dark eyes saw his insides and yet he did not turn away.   

Sirius felt a rawness inside him that needed to be protected, needed to be wrapped up and softened to ease the hurt it felt with its exposure.   

He leaned into Severus, his mouth hurriedly seeking his, finding parted lips in shock against him but catching up with the furore of the kiss. He leaned inwards, hands wrapping around Severus’ back, his waist. From their seated position Sirius pushed onto his knees, his kneecaps pressed against the softness of the earth beneath his blanketed coat that he had sat on.   

Pressing Severus closer, a cascade of lust coursed through him, frantic and mesmerizing. He felt Severus’ hands wrap around his broad shoulders, his fingertips digging into the muscled flesh beneath his shirt. He felt something akin to a growl reverberate inside his chest, an unbearable tightness inside his underwear, a rock hard erection tenting his trousers as Severus brushed his hip against him in their unfamiliar proximities. He felt Severus feel him, nimble hands learning to read his body, sinking lower down his torso to the bulge that stood between them.   

The touch was tantalising. Shudders ran through him as if his skin had lost its solid form, transforming into waves of sense and sensuality as hands cupped and grabbed, friction lighting fire within his groin as he bit into the kiss, causing Severus to moan.   

Wordlessly, Sirius lifted himself to his feet, leading Severus upwards, lips unbreakable, hands desperate to hold on. The breeze dimmed against their skin as they turned into the kitchen, the door left open as if it was still broken.   

Being indoors, away from the fullness of the moon, did not alleviate the grief inside Sirius, his soul whispering for the things he never thought he would ask from Severus of all people- a plea for closeness, for contact, for connection. It had been so very long since he had been with anyone- and, in that moment, he felt as virginal as if he had never fucked before, simply because he had never fucked Severus before.   

Sirius held his hand as they stepped down the hallway together, an unspoken agreement to what they were about to do. He realised that this was the first time he was having sex with someone, for the first time, sober. In the past, as limited as his past had been before Azkaban, before Grimmaul Place, before the Veil, he had believed as if he needed a sip of whisky to course through what he presumed to be nervousness before someone new. He wondered if this was something he was ready to do-  

Hands unbuckled his belt.   

Dark eyes met his, looking upward through lashes longer than he had been aware of in their past. He felt an tremor in Severus’ hands as he lowered his trousers and underwear down passed his muscular thighs and he hoped the slight shake was from excitement rather than nerves as he felt. He felt himself step backwards slightly, his back meeting the wall as he watched Severus sink to his knees before him.   

His eyes shot shut as his body richotched with pleasure, sharp trails of bliss followed Severus tongue along the length of his shaft, tasting his musky hardness and circling the engorged tip with the tip of his tongue. The back of his head met the solidity of the wall behind him, a small smack of pressure as his spine curled with the untethered pleasure that grew within him with each lick, each suck, each wet stroke of that mouth around his cock.  

And then that mouth was joined by hands, the beds of fingertips massaging and stroking his taint, his testicles, slick with the saliva that dripped from his lips. It was impossible to keep his voice locked up, Severus’ hands and lips had the keys to incite salacious groans from his body, deep guttural, begging groans. His hands found themselves tying themselves up within the locks of black hair of the man knelt down before him, tugging and pulling and gripping, his hips juttering against that mouth so selfishly and so greedily.   

He heard the sound of a belt buckle clicking again and his grey eyes watched as Severus continued to suck his cock as he lowered the waistband of his own trousers. Black eyes meeting grey eyes as one hand pulled his own hard cock out, stroking himself as he sucked, a slight groan vibrating around the head of his cock as Severus’ reacted sensitively to his own hand. Sirius felt like screaming at the erotica he was witness to, the sensations bombarding him, beating him black and blue. The rawness of this experience eclipsed the rawness he had felt in his grief, turning it inward and inside out, as he could only think of this moment that made him feel so utterly alive.   

He became aware that Severus had stood up again, only by the coolness of his cock, the warm mouth crushing against his lips with an unmistakable need, a gluttonous demand for attention and satiation after working himself up pleasuring him. Severus gripped hold of his hands, leading them to his exposed buttocks, his cheeks soft and cool from the air on his skin. He brushed the side of his face against his jaw, a sensual connection that Sirius groaned into.   

Severus unbuttoned his shirt, his hands rubbing against the muscles of Sirius’ chest as he stood on his tip toes, edging Sirius to touch him, to kneed his fingerprints against the cleft of his buttocks, to pull his cheeks apart and probe him. His trousers dipped down passed his bony thighs, stepping out of the clothing as he bracketed a leg open around Sirius thigh begging him, wordlessly, to touch him-  

And then, a familiar whisper, never heard from Sirius’ lips before, but plenty of men before him. A charm that coated Sirius’ fingers in slick lubricant, cool and slippery. Severus shivered in anticipation, his heart pounding against the other’s chest where he pressed himself against. With his uncharmed hand, Sirius lifted Severus’ face to his by the chin, grabbing hold of him by the lips once more.   

Sirius lowered his hand, his fingers sliding between the slightness of those cheeks, seeking out the place that he knew Severus wanted to be touched, to be teased, to be filled. He felt Severus shudder, tremor, groan breathless into their kiss as he finally pressed a finger against his hole sliding himself in so intimately. Sirius felt beads of pre-cum slip from his own cock at the quiet keening sounds of pleasure that fell involuntarily, powerlessly, from Severus’ mouth against his.   

“Is this what you wanted?” Sirius whispered, a teasing thrill to his words, a pleasure that could only come from the power of making another man quiver against him with his touch.   

It was everything Severus wanted. His need at that moment was so wanton, so salacious, he knew he should have felt humiliated at his behaviour- pressed up against Sirius with his legs so open- but he felt how this need was mirrored equally by Sirius at that moment.   

The realisation that Sirius wanted him as much as he wanted Sirius was hard for his self-esteem to comprehend, it was hard for his insecurities to fight against. He moaned into Sirius’ shoulders as he felt Sirius press his finger deeply within him, his palm cupping and smacking against his buttocks as he increased the tenor, the pace, of his probing. The thickness of this presence doubled as a second finger stretched him, his sphincter, his nerve endings screaming with the friction those two fingers induced. He rocked against these fingers, desperately chasing the bliss he offered him.  

“Is this ... all you want?” Sirius whispered against his ear, the words tickling and tantalising against the fine hairs within his shell-like ear canal.   

Severus felt his body tip against Sirius’ chest as his fingers tilted inside him, the palm of his hands smacking against him as he probed so slick and so slippery within him. He felt his spine tingle, ring out, as he clung onto Sirius’ broad shoulders like his life depended on it. It had been so long since he had been touched like this, and at the same time- he had never known a touch like this: to be touched by a man whose name he actually knew, and who knew his name, was... a novelty in itself. An intimacy he had not dared to know before.   

To have the fingers of a man who he had hated and lusted over, had felt things he had never wanted to name for... this was more than a novelty, this was a luxury. And he was starving for more, a hunger for something he had never known but always craved.   

“ More , need more.” Severus groaned, chest tight with anticipation, his throat gripped by excitement as he saw a glint of relief in Sirius’ expression, as if he had been waiting for him to ask.   

He found himself... shocked by this patience, this respect for a pace set by him and him alone.   

It was... endearing, it was alluring, it was unexpected in the best way possible.   

Severus felt the fullness within him slip from his hole as two hands met to unbutton his shirt. He felt Sirius struggle with the buttons with the slipperiness of his fingers, a smirk rising to his lips as he lifted the shirt from over his head to bypass the buttons. He shivered as his smirk was immediately kissed away, lips parted open by Sirius’ tongue.   

“You’re incorrigible,” Sirius whispered, edging him backwards, hands grasping around his narrow waist and stroking his cock so tantalisingly that Severus could only follow his lead, anticipation rising and choking around his bandaged throat.   

As soon as the back of his knees met the edge of the bed, Severus felt his body tighten, a last minute anxiety that paced before what both men knew was to come and yet knew nothing of what to expect from the other. Sirius lips graced against his, a softness that offered assurances, a softness that transcended Severus’ perceptions of Sirius entirely to the core.   

As Sirius leaned over him, his body between his parted thighs, Severus felt his body clench, tighten, and tense as Sirius lined his impossibly hard cock to his hole. A bluntness against his body, his mind scrambling to work out the logistics of his body accommodating such girth within him. As if sensing his fluttering apprehensions, Sirius leaned in closer to him, lips pressing against the intimacies of the unbandaged spaces of his throat, meeting the sharpness of his jawline with a sensuality that parted Severus’ thighs open wider.   

He listened to the murmuring encouragements, the soft worded pleadings, against his ears, the bluntness of Sirius’ cock pressing against him, his hole prying open, stretching discomfortingly as the head of this thick cock penetrated him. Severus gasped, a tightness to his voice that mirrored the tightness of his body, an inconceivability that this cock could fit inside him-   

“Relax,” Sirius whispered, the tightness gripped around his cock undeniable, the rigidity of Severus’ body a concern he sought to undo, “relax for me.”   

Severus felt the gentleness of his voice and he could not handle it, the softness of his words striking a part of him he had not known needed striking.   

It was as sharp as a slap across his face, to have someone who had been so cold and dangerous towards him in their past be so ... kind.   

The kindness felt delirious within him.   

He begged for it.   

Begged for Sirius to move, his words taking on a life of their own as they dripped form his lips against Sirius lips, begging him despite his anxiously wound-up body.   

Sirius pushed himself inwards as far as he could, filling Severus to the brim, sheathing himself inside this body that begged for him and shielded from him in equal measures. He wanted to do everything to turn the tides, to bring back the confidence, the force, that Severus had displayed as he had knelt down before him sucking him off. He wanted him to feel in charge- because he was. Sirius would not move, would pull out of him immediately, if he had any inclination that this was not what the man wanted.   

“You’re so tight, so very tight.” Sirius groaned, the delirium of his arousal tied up by the tightness of his whispers in his throat.   

Severus felt as if his body was stretched beyond belief, filled beyond capacity, stuffed greedily with Sirius’ cock that filled him to the brim. He bordered the realms of bliss and pain, the stretch of Sirius’ girth inside his starved body so much after such a dearth of sexual contact. He found himself whimpering at the fullness, his body screaming for satiation, his own cock so solid he felt lightheaded. His face flushed, his body burned with desire beneath Sirius.   

“... So much.” He stammered, delight lacing his words, before his voice took over, advocating for the screams of his body, commanding with one word to Sirius, “Move.”   

Sirius pushed himself up onto his knees, dragging Severus body to follow him so they remained connected. He held on to his lithe thighs, never knowing legs as lanky and divine as this. He looked downward, seeing himself penetrating Severus, his fantasies come to life. He collected his sanity as he pulled himself out to the tip, the head of his cock brushing the tightness of his sphincter before slamming back inwards, the cry from the man beneath him so delirious, so pantingly, gloriously blissful that Sirius found himself incapable of not pulling outwards again just to slam back in and hear him all over again.   

A frantic rhythm of stuttering hips built up between the two bodies.   

Sirius gripped hold of those thighs tightly, fingers imbedding into the thin flesh as he leaned forward slightly, tilting his cock deeper and deeper into this writhing body until his knees were wrapped around his shoulders. Sirius let his upper body fall forwards, his hands pressing in to the mattress, holding himself upright as he framed Severus’ face. He watched him, voyeuristically, watching him take him so well, so eagerly- none of the wariness remained, none of the caution.   

He watched as Severus’ hand stroked his own cock in rhythm to their colliding flesh. Sirius closed his eyes for one moment and his ears filled with the sound of his testicles smashing against Severus’ buttocks, Severus’ breathless moans so delicious- more tantalising than anything he had ever imagined when he had spent his time pointlessly denying this attraction.   

He watched him beneath him, coveting his pleasure as if it was his own. He met his hips to the pace of his desire, his quiet subtle moans a language he found he could understand with inherent fluency. A natural talent or a crash course of learning, Sirius wasn’t sure how he understood so thoroughly, but the arching of Severus’ spine from the mattress told Sirius that he was near that Severus would not last much longer, that his body begged for release.   

“Cum for me,” Sirius groaned, his own body tight with forced restraint as he fought for him to finish first, his body unwilling to consider undoing until Severus was undone beneath him.   

He felt his hips rock wilder against him, his cock dragging and plundering his hole with a desire that was unrestrained, untethered, uncapped. He felt his eyes roll back as he fought his body to outlast, the base of his spine electrifying with delight, his limbs lightening as blood rushed to his cock, his body shutting down of all sense except the force of his burgeoning orgasm.   

He wanted to watch Severus cum, watch the usually defensive man so undone and so spent by what his body could do to him. He witnessed the lull of exhaustion and undoing fill his black eyes to the brim as his arched back lifted from the bed, the concavities of his torso brushing against the muscular volumes of his abdomen above him. He felt his thin legs tremor against his shoulders as he finally shuddered and cried out, streams of pearly cum raining down on his stomach and chest like strings of treasure hard earned.   

“Oh, fucking hell, yes .” Sirius groaned, his body giving in, surrendering to the bliss that had held him hostage, strangling him, choking him, as he had delayed his orgasm to the edge.   

He slammed his hips against his buttocks,  the backs of Severus’ thighs taking the brunt of his force as his cock plundered what remained of this frazzled and spent form, finally releasing into Severus’ body with a final rocking back and forth against this sensitive body. He felt his chest pounding with the thump of his heart beat; his forehead damp with effort and sweat. He breathed hurriedly, eyes lingering on the utterly spent and depleted form beneath him.   

Instinctually, Sirius lowered himself, his lips brushing against Severus’ lips, a dryness to both men’s mouths from the sapping of moisture from their spent bodies. He kissed him softly, watching Severus return into himself as he kissed him back.  

“I still haven’t packed for our adventure, you know.” Sirius smiled into the kiss, teasingly.   

“Well, you will have to pack tomorrow, I doubt I can move right now.” Severus tutted, stretching his limbs satisfyingly beneath him, his face brushing against the richness of Sirius’ sweaty underarms with an unobstructed but faint smile.   

“Tomorrow.” Sirius repeated, feeling himself slip from Severus’, laying down beside him on top of the bed as exhaustion carried them both away.  

. . .   

Severus stood in the spare room, his holdall on the table as he carried vials of healing potions from the shelves to his bag. He tucked the things inside the holdall, the expansion charm still in place from when he had first packed this bag years ago in preparation for his escape from England. It was an odd feeling, to be so ashamed of a potion. He who revelled in tinkering with recipes, in brewing perfection and pouring this into vials. It wasn’t the potion he was ashamed of, he had the self-awareness to know, it was the reality that he needed so much of these healing potions just to function. He tucked these vials around the clothes he had already packed, the book he had decided to bring with him.   

The weather was the brightest it had been since he had arrived in Drobhna, he noted to himself, eyes gazing out the window. Although the blueness of the skies did not make it warm outside. He watched the heads of flowers bustle and dance in the meadows, led by the gusts of a breeze. He pulled a jumper from his holdall, pushing his arms through the thick sleeves before pulling it over his head.   

Movement was already a stiff action, Severus tutted to himself, he began to have second and third thoughts about the whole adventure- at least his part in it. He knew he couldn’t say anything to Sirius, the man would smirk knowingly, a smug satisfaction that the aftershocks of their night lingered into the next day on his body- insisting on ignoring the permanency of Severus’ war injuries having something to do with it. The fact that it was the lower half of his body that felt the brunt of this stiffness was something Severus preferred to look passed.   

After packing everything he needed from the spare room he made his way to the hallway where he saw Sirius putting his coat on, tucking his wavy hair out from the collar with a flick of his hands. He buttoned his coat, his grey eyes meeting Severus as he grabbed his own dark coat from the hook.   

“Ready to go?” Sirius asked, lifting his own backpack from the ground. He had the face, the posture, the presence, of someone who had studied the map in its entirety and knew the way he was going to walk. Who knew the way to lead them both to begin the adventure exploring this island they found themselves on together.   

Severus wanted to follow him, wanted to save up all his daily reserves of energy just to walk in step with him, even if it meant collapsing exhaustedly at each moment of rest. He wanted to see the things on Sirius’ map of the island, the curiosities of the ruins and the old faded warnings of the ink drawn forest. He nodded, buttoning up the last of his black buttons on his coat and picking up his holdall to wear once again.   

They stepped outside, Severus turning to charm the cottage door shut even if it was unlikely that anyone would come by this way. It was a reminder that this cottage was now his home, was now his shelter. He had unpacked his belongings into the wardrobe in his bedroom; he had began the everlasting routine of housework; he thought of the seeds and bulbs he planned to plant and decided he would get to work on this when he returned from this trip away. As he began to follow Sirius across the meadow, in the opposite way they usually travelled when they walked into town, he couldn’t believe the attachment he had already developed for this cottage.   

Ever since Sirius had said he would not drag him back to England.   

Even more so, he discovered, since he had heard Sirius confess to getting rid of this Two-Way Mirror that Runcorn had handed him for updates. It was a further confirmation that this great fear of being brought back to England could be put to rest. He had asked Sirius why he had told him about the Two-Way Mirror, it hardly seemed necessary if he had disposed of it, Severus thought, and Sirius had said that he had just wanted Severus to know. Did Sirius know how assuring this confession had been, after what felt like so long choked with anxiety and dread at the prospect of an unwanted return to the world he had left behind?   

For the first  mile northward, both men were quietly absorbing the change of scenery as they walked. The ground was hard and untrodden beneath their boots as if the population of Drobhna rarely ventured in this direction, preferring the familiar bustle of the seaside promenade. Severus listed all the different flowers they passed, all the different plants and mushrooms. He felt Sirius’ watchful gaze upon him, as much as the man took in the view around them.   

Sirius saw a collection of flat-ish grey rocks embedded into the meadows, as if a giant had flung these boulders like pebbles across the island. He thought that this would be a good a place to stop for a break as any, conscious of the concerns Severus had held about his fitness to join him on this adventure with his war injuries. He dropped his backpack onto the ground as he sat on top of one of the largest rocks, patting the space next to him to encourage Severus to sit too. Instead, the man paced around the rocks, looking around at the slight hilly peaks they had walked upwards, the incline so steady it was almost unnoticeable.  His eyes glanced back the way they had come, knowing his cottage was tucked away amongst the meadows and trees on the way towards the ever-present shoreline of grey and blue in the furthest distance.   

 Sirius sensed he needed to do more to convince the man to take the short respite before they carried on, seeing what could pass for excitement on Severus’ face as his black eyes collected the sights of nature around them. With a small smirk, he opened his bag, pulling out a flask of hot water and two mugs from the kitchen. He placed the three vessels on the flatness of the rock’s surface that he sat upon, using his free hands to pull a jar of coffee, a small box of tea bags and a packet of biscuits from the backpack.   

“Did you pack the entire kitchen with you?” Severus spoke, his attention drawn to the sudden tea-party that Sirius had put together.   

“Not at all,” Sirius handed him a mug, offering him either tea or coffee and feeling surprised when he requested the coffee over the tea, “although, I have packed the kettle. It seemed impossible to go without caffeine on this trip, not when I’ve already given up alcohol.”   

“You should consider adding sugar to your hot drinks,” Severus suggested suddenly, “when someone has stopped drinking, their bodies can crave the sugar that is in alcohol as much as the alcohol itself.”  

“How do you know so much about all this?” Sirius asked, genuinely, without accusation.   

Severus took a sip of his coffee, the bitterness a soothing comfort to his head that was adjusting to the disturbed sleep-cycle that the injuries had brought him.   

“Both of my parents had problems with drinking.” Severus revealed, “the potion I made you was something I made for my mother when I was younger. When that ran out, she would have tea with a ridiculous amount of sugar in it. Until she came across some money, anyway, and the whole cycle would repeat anew.”   

“I had no idea.” Sirius spoke, a sincere sadness within him to hear that Severus had lived his life in the long shadow of someone else addiction.   

“Why would you?” Severus smirked into his coffee.   

“I suppose that’s true.” Sirius sighed, “when did they stop drinking?”   

He asked the question hopefully, with hopeful intention, not just to have Severus talk about something positive but to also give him an example that people like him could change. He missed the mark on both accounts.   

“They didn’t.” Severus clarified matter of factly, as if he had numbed himself to the horror he was about to unleash, “my mother was drinking when she overdosed and killed herself when I was thirteen. And my father, presumably, was drinking when he died of liver failure. I wouldn’t know for certain , since he left when I was fifteen, but I would say it was an educated guess.”   

“Fucking hell, Severus.” Sirius choked on his coffee, appalled by the undiluted retelling of a childhood home so marred by trauma and abandonment.   

And he had made it so much worse for him at school.  

He knew he had made his life hell at Hogwarts, he had apologised for this. The hard part of his learning of the inner lives of those that he had found joy in tormenting as a teenager was learning that these lives were plenty miserable enough without him adding on to this.   

“Are you ready to keep walking?” Severus changed the subject, sensing he had overshared, recoiling into a cavern of shame that existed within himself.   

He turned to walk on, slowly.  

“What-? Wait a minute.” Sirius stood up from the boulder, stuffing the flask, the biscuits all into his bag again, holding his mug as Severus still held his, walking and sipping as he went, “Severus-”  

“What?” Severus interrupted briskly, suddenly coming to a stop next to Sirius.  

A breeze ran through both of them, silent as a ghost passing by.   

Sirius didn’t know what to say and that made him feel worse, it made him feel a useless. Not only was his drinking problem something that Severus had lived with growing up, but he was living with it again with him.   

“I’m sorry.” Sirius stated.   

“What?” Severus’ nose scrunched in confusion.   

“I- I don’t want to be a reminder.” Sirius struggled to find the words inside him that reflected what he was feeling.   

“... You’re not.” Severus spoke slowly, “I’m sorry I even brought it up. Can we just leave it?”   

Sirius felt a reassurance inside him, that he was not a reminder of things that sounded hard to live through as a child and yet he had lived through it. If anything, it empowered him to never return to how he had been in recent history- he never wanted to be in the same category as these people who had let Severus down so catastrophically.  

As they walked, a residual silence brewing upon Sirius’ brow as he considered his own family and their own interactions with alcohol, trying to determine if there was any scope at all for this being just another way his mother had fucked him up or not.   

Walburga Black was seen with a glass of Elf Wine with her evening meal and a small glass of port before he and his brother were expected to retire away for the night and get out of her space. When attending get-togethers with other pompous pure blood families, she held a glass of wine but never overindulged. He never remembered her changing appearance- her stomach squeezed in by a charmed corset during the pregnancy of his younger brother made it difficult to adjust to his presence at first. Her rigidity and self-control would not allow for an addiction, he determined. His father had tucked himself away in his study for hours on end, but he was too focused on reading increasingly demented tomes on pure-blood supremacy.   

Sirius decided that his drink problem was just another way he had rebelled against his poxy family, as miserable as that had sounded. Merlin, what a joke.   

Lifting his head up, he saw an approaching line of trees that he had not noticed until that moment. It was like a mirage in an oasis. He looked at Severus, who appeared as equally confused by this presence as he was.   

“Have we really walked that far?” Sirius found himself asking, “shouldn’t we have seen this forest from where we had taken our break by the rocks?”   

Severus stared at the trees with an intensity that made Sirius shiver as he drew those dark eyes towards him.   

“Well, we knew there would be a forest to explore, on that map of yours.” He spoke quietly.  

Sirius saw that same thrilling curiosity within Severus that he had seen when he had first looked at the map at the kitchen table the day before. He found himself grinning, enjoying this inherent curiosity that met his own often damning risk-taking behaviour. He decided that, since they were entering this forest together, they would balance each other out: Sirius would protect Severus from the dangers that may exist within this curious space, and Severus would provide a reminder to him to not take too many chances with mortality.   

“Right, come on then. Let’s see what lies within this forest that has so many illegible old warnings on this map of ours.” Sirius smiled, finding himself taking Severus by the hand as he led the way forwards for them.  

The trees seemed to loom above them, as if crouching down from the ceiling sky. The scent of moss and petrichor welcomed them, the shade of the canopies shielded them from the breeze as they stepped further and further    

. . .   

Chapter Text

“I think we are lost.”   

Severus peered upwards at the endless expanse of greenery above him, the broad trunks of the trees so gigantically looming above him he felt as miniscule as an insect. The sky was turning orange with the fast approaching sunset. Beneath the density of the leaves it felt as if night had already fallen for them. He creaked his neck back down to the moss-covered earth, watching as Sirius strolled in front of him as if leading them through the forest.   

Except he wasn’t quite leading them through the forest. Severus was convinced that these trees had a life of their own and was leading them in circles. He was certain, in the far corners of his eyes, that the trees lifted their roots up from the soil as if holding the skirts of a long ancient dress, pacing around the two men in secret.    

“I’m sure the trees will get a bit thinner if we go this way...” Sirius thought aloud, but the doubt was clear in his voice too.   

He turned towards Severus, just a pace or two behind him, noticing the drag to his feet, a creasing to his forehead that suggested the effort involved with all this walking was catching up with him. Not that he would say it.  

“Let’s take a break for a bit,” Sirius smiled, his stroll coming to a stop by the large roots of a tree, sitting on one of the ancient curves like a bench.   

Severus tried to not let Sirius see how relieved he was to be able to sit down for a bit. He was used to masking the weakness within him, suppressing the effects of it on his body to such an extent he failed to notice it until it became overwhelming. He made his way to the large root opposite Sirius, perching himself cautiously on the winding wood as if afraid his weight would make it snap.   

Sirius lifted his leg slightly, his hands gripping on to the root he sat upon for extra balance as he brushed his booted foot gently against Severus’, grinning as Severus rolled his eyes at him.   

A comfortable quietness stretched out before them, Severus taking the opportunity to light up a cigarette and offer Sirius one. Sirius tucked the cigarette behind his ear as he offered Severus a mug of coffee again, amused by the relief he felt that Severus accepted a biscuit this time.   

He never thought he would be cheered by feeding this bird like man, but here he was. He pictured himself throwing biscuit crumbs across the ground, a beautiful blackbird pecking carefully for them, one eye always on him. Sirius imagined himself sitting as still as possible, just so Severus would stay and not fly away.    

“I think the trees are moving.” Severus muttered, taking a sip of his coffee thirstily.   

“Excuse me?” Sirius blinked, the imaginary blackbird flying away in his mind.   

 This had to be one of the oddest things he had heard from the typically logical man.   

“This island is not very large, I believe the map of yours said it was 50 miles all the way round.” Severus calculated, “the forest on your map was five miles at the most, we have been walking for over an hour and there has been no change in the density of trees, no signs of peripheries...”   

“...And you think this means the trees are moving ?” Sirius stared at him, fighting the urge to smirk until he was certain that Severus was joking.   

“... Have you not heard of a moving tree before?” Severus asked, raising an eyebrow.   

Sirius took a moment to look around, lighting the cigarette that Severus had handed him earlier. He was convinced that Severus was either losing his mind or Sirius was discovering he had a bizarre sense of humour, something he kept tucked away in his company up until then. He took a long drag on the cigarette, his grey eyes lingering along the direction they had walked, the cottage feeling so far away and yet...   

And then he saw a movement . Slight to the eye, as if camouflaged. The thick trees were the easiest to spot, he found, the slow drag of root across earth, moving so slow that no imprints were left on the land.   

“Fucking hell, you’re right .” Sirius choked, the cigarette falling from his lips in shock.   

He scrambled to pick it up, catching it before any of the embers could make contact with the wet leaves.   

“I think this must be a Roaming Woodland,” Severus continued, amused by Sirius’ shock and awe, “they don’t exist in the United Kingdom anymore. There is a legend about the very last Roaming Woodland picking itself up in Wales and travelling across the sea in a dramatic exodus somewhere. Some theorise that they were sick and tired of muggles chopping them down, but I haven’t heard of a talking tree before, so it’s not the most reliable theory in magical academic circles...”  

“How... have I never heard of this before?” Sirius mused, “how did you hear about this?”   

“I happen to like herbology.” Severus said as a means of explanation.   

Sirius beamed at Severus. This adventure around Drobhna was proving to be rich with detail and wonder- Roaming Woodlands! And the fact that Severus had been able to identify this rarity was a joy to Sirius. He wondered what else he knew and how he would discover this this treasure trove of knowledge within him.   

“Where are these trees going then?” Sirius asked.   

He suddenly became aware that the roots they were sat upon were part of this Roaming Woodland.  

“Should we be sat on this tree?” Sirius added cautiously, gazing upwards at the tree as if the tree was going to grumble at him disapprovingly for the audacity of taking a rest on its roots.   

“This tree won’t move if we’re sat on it.” Severus recalled from an old book he had read years ago, “but the Roaming Woodland won’t leave a tree behind either. They’ll wait patiently for us to get up from these roots so they can go on their way- wherever that is.”  

Sirius nodded slowly, taking the words in like sweet water on a hot day.   

He continued to look above, seeing the faint glow of red and orange from the setting sun above shine through in beams through the gaps in the trees.   

It would soon be dark, it would soon be hard to see in the density of trees. The thought of being surrounded by these moving, living, trees in the dark made Sirius shiver. He wasn’t sure if this was due to excitement, awe or fear. Whatever it was, it was a childlike blend of sensation as he was confronted with creatures that challenged his understanding of the natural world around him. He wondered if these trees could talk- and if so, what they would tell him.   

“Perhaps we should start putting the tent up.” Severus announced as he lifted himself from the tree root that he had perched himself upon.   

He finished what was left of his coffee, using his wand to clean the dregs of coffee granules that lingered at the bottom of the porcelain mug. He stretched his long legs, appearing extra lanky in Sirius’ view as his ankles poked out from the legs of his trousers.   

“How are you finding all the walking so far?” Sirius asked, seeing a flash of discomfort appear on Severus’ face at his words.   

“Fine.”   

The discomfort on his face was due to the question, rather than the walking, Sirius assumed and he decided to leave any further questioning for now. He would just make sure they took regular breaks and ensured that he ate something once in a while- speaking of eating...  

“I’ll get a campfire started, and I’ll rustle something up for us to eat.” Sirius winked, opening his backpack and grabbing a charmed tent from the side pocket, “you can handle the tent.”   

He threw the thing towards Severus, watching him catch it, a look on his face that suggested he thought he might miss and drop the thing. Sirius smirked to himself, kneeling down to search through his bag for the food he had packed, tactful enough to not let Severus see his amusement at his total absence of athleticism. In a few moments he had pulled out a saucepan, a tin of soup and half a loaf of bread. He dug around deeper for two bowls and spoons- a sigh of relief that he had not forgotten these things when he couldn’t see them immediately.   

“How you getting on with the tent?” Sirius cooed, beginning to search around the ground for sticks to make a fire for the two of them.   

“... Fine.” Severus repeated, an unmistakable hint of uncertainty in his tone.   

Sirius made his way to where the darkly dressed man stood, fighting with the straps and buttons of the pop-up tent. He crept up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist, a startled flinch causing him to drop the tent where it finally popped open on the ground.   

“Well done.” Sirius smirked, kissing the top of his head, dark strands of black hair soft against his lips.   

Severus fought back the instinct to huff and push away, his body too comfortable in this man’s arms now for anything else to be held. He worked through the sense of feeling teased, the sensitivity to criticism so acute that even a ribbing left him prickly. He worked through this discomfort instead of fighting it for once, finding that the temporary humiliation passed him by a great deal quicker than if he had fought it.   

“I’ll get the fire going, why don’t you take a look and see if the inside of the tent meets your standards.” Sirius kissed his head again, unwrapping his arms from Severus to get the job done.   

Severus shivered involuntarily at his departure, turning to watch him collect sticks with the enthusiasm of a dog playing fetch. Smirking to himself at the image, he unzipped the tent and made his way inside, impressed with the space before he reminded himself the tent was charmed and therefore had the luxury of space that muggle tents lacked.   

His eyes avoided the bed in the centre of the tent, below a transparent covering that acted as a window through the tent. If the trees weren’t so dense, he was sure they would have been able to see the stars through the square view. He avoided looking at the bed because it made him remember the night before and he wasn’t sure what to make of it.   

He remembered the greed that had overcame him, arousal that struck him so surely he lost control of himself. He remembered the sounds he had made, the moans. He was unused to sharing a space with someone the next morning, let alone going on an adventure with them, after having sex with them. He was used to cold, sharp break offs; one-night-stands that led absolutely nowhere, spaces he could just release into the moment and not concern himself with what would happen the next day.   

Those past experiences had been empty- something he only realised in comparison with the night before- but they had been uncomplicated.   

This thing that existed between himself and Sirius was complicated .   

 It should not exist. It was a bastard child of adolescent hatred and tentative forgiveness in their adulthood; a brew of supressed longing – longing so deep and so old, Severus could never confess. Compared to what Severus saw as the fickle saplings of new feeling that Sirius somehow had for him, Severus saw his own feelings for Sirius as something old and embedded within himself. It was established. It was... something he should not feel.   

Sirius would be gone soon.   

And Severus would remain on Drobhna because he had to- because he wanted to, he reminded himself. The ... unexpected joy he was experiencing with Sirius did not take away the fact that he was a wanted criminal in the United Kingdom, for Merlin’s sake.   

He would be left alone.   

Just like he had wanted.   

Still wanted- he forced himself to swallow the tightness in his throat, the lump that had buried itself in his oesophagus like a stone that would not sink.   

“The soups heated up,” Sirius’ announced, popping his head through the unzipped tent.   

Severus turned slowly, tucking the stone away within him so he didn’t notice it as much.   

. . .  

Sirius watched Severus over the silver edge of his Two-Way Mirror. He held the delicate thing in his hands, sitting by the fireplace waiting for Harry’s face to appear on the surface of the mirror. So far, all he could see was his own face peeking over towards Severus, pacing back and forth just outside the dimly lit light. Sirius had told him it was okay to stay, to be near when Harry did eventually answer. But Sirius could see that he was waiting to hear the start of the catch up before he skulked off, not wanting to overhear.   

“Sit down, you’ll wear the earth out.” Sirius winked, the fire playing with the shadows on his face.   

Severus didn’t respond, a nervous tension fixed on his brow, in the pacing of his feet and the tightly wrapped arms around his own waist.   

“ I am sitting down ,”   

Sirius jolted, his attention falling to the mirror where Harry’s beaming face looked up at him.   

“Harry!” Sirius gasped, lifting the mirror up to his face.   

He looked over the edge one last time, eyes trying to land on Severus but finding an empty space in the darkness where he stood moments before. He looked back down, giving Harry his full attention.   

“ Where on earth are you now?” Harry asked, peering around his godfather, trying to make sense of the scenery.   

“Have you heard of a Roaming Woodland?” Sirius asked, “because I have never heard of these things until-”  

“ A Roaming Woodland? Yes- they were mentioned briefly in a History of Magic,” Hermione’s face appeared next to Harry, Ron’s appearing on his other side, “ are you really in a Roaming Woodland? They are so rare.”  

“Yes, I saw some of the trees moving, but they are very slow, and I hear that they don’t like moving if there are people around to see them.” Sirius thought aloud.   

“ Why are you in a Roaming Woodland, anyway?” Ron’s voice asked.   

“Well, I’m here for a month, I might as well get to explore the place a bit.” Sirius grinned, “I found a map in an old junk shop. There’s are ruins and a lighthouse and-”  

“ Anything to get away from Snape, I see.” Ron joked.   

“We’re both here.” Sirius spoke firmly, a sharpness to his tone that the three had not expected.   

“ You and Snape are exploring the place together?” Harry asked, sounding perplexed, as if this was a joke. If it was a joke, he didn’t like the punchline- Snape being a punchline seemed cruel considering their history and the fact that Sirius had said he was trying to be nice.   

“Of course, I would not have known I was in a Roaming Woodland if Severus wasn’t here with me.” Sirius smiled.  

“ You are actually getting on?” Harry asked.  

If you only knew the half of it, Sirius found himself smiling.   

“What can I say, you put two people in a cottage and you get to know each other a bit better.” Sirius spoke light-heartedly.   

“ I suppose you do have more of a chance to get on, if it’s one on one,”  Harry added, his own thoughts turning darkly to the memories he had witnessed in the pensive at the near-end of the Battle of Hogwarts.   

It was hard... to feel good about his dad, Harry admitted to himself. It was hard for him. Harry had been bullied for years as a child by his cousin and his friends and it hurt him to know that his dad had been the cause of the same misery for Snape as Dudley had been for him.   

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sirius asked, seeing Harry shrug dismissively.   

“Well, you any my dad were hardly decent to him.” Harry trailed off, “ he went after Snape when you were bored, remember?”   

No need to remind me, Sirius cringed inwardly.   

“ I guess, if you want the month to pass easily, you’ll need to try to get on.” Harry continued, “ and not... kill each other.”  

“Harry. I assure you: we are managing to not kill each other.” Sirius spoke firmly and slowly.   

“ Well, we’ve not seen any proof of life, have we? For all we know, you’ve buried the body in the woods an hour before the call-” Ron joked.   

“Right, this isn’t fucking funny.” Sirius interrupted, trying to speak quietly despite his explosive anger.   

He didn’t want to let Severus hear this conversation- wherever he was in the Roaming Woodland, in the shadows that appeared darker beyond the flickers of the campfire.   

Sirius saw the change of expression on the three faces in the mirror, a look of knowing they had over-stepped but not knowing exactly how. Because of course they didn’t know, the transformation in the relationship between himself and Severus had been as unpredictable to him as it was all he wanted. Denial made that juxtaposition possible.   

“I need to give you a heads up, Harry,” Sirius changed the subject, “you will likely receive contact from Runcorn in the next few days. I’ve told him I’m going into a mountain in Norway to search for Severus, but I’ve thrown the Two-Way Mirror he had given to me into the sea. He’ll think I’ve catastrophically injured myself when I don’t answer in about three days, he will, apparently, let my next of kin know.”  

“ Right. I can pretend to be shocked.” Harry agreed, before asking, “ Why did you really agree to this anyway?  

Sirius couldn’t tell Harry about the... obsession he had for Severus, an obsession he hadn’t understood at all. He couldn’t expect Harry to understand. He remembered the thing Runcorn had dangled before him, the prospect of being able to remember his time in the Veil if only he had some way of being useful. Catching Severus had been the thing Runcorn had said would make him feel useful again.   

“Runcorn had insinuated that having a job would make me feel useful, and ready to remember those wasted years in the Veil.” Sirius rolled his eyes, “stupid, I know. But I didn’t really need a big reward to go after Severus back then, did I?”   

“ So that means you really have given up bringing Snape back to him, right?”  

“ Most definitely.” Sirius layered the point.   

He knew Harry had little reason to trust him with regards to his treatment towards Severus, Sirius knew, but it was hard to hear this distrust so painfully. It was like there was two of him, the horrible bastard he used to be and the man he was now- a man he wasn’t sure how to describe just yet.   

He was still getting to know this man who kissed Severus instead of striking him.  

This man who felt complete, actually complete , when inside Severus, his thin body like a missing limb he had gone his entire life not knowing.   

He wondered if he had this impression on Severus too, but the man was a difficult one to read.   

He couldn’t let himself devote his soul to a person he was going to have to leave soon.   

He couldn’t let this happen.  

But even this denial- much like the denial he had for his feelings for Severus in the first place- was something so obvious to him it couldn’t sneak passed him like one of the quiet Roaming Woodland trees that surrounded around him.   

“Listen, I’ve got to go.” Sirius announced, “it’s good to speak to you Harry, and you two. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. Please let me know if you do hear from Runcorn, Harry. And remember,” he added with a wink, “you haven’t seen me.”  

Harry winked back at him, a comradery grin between the two of them.  

. . .  

Sirius put the Two-Way Mirror down, exhaling deeply as if the conversation he had with Harry and his friends had been exhausting rather than enjoyable. On this occasion, he had to admit to himself that this was the case. It was exhausting to defend himself against the person he used to be- what a fucking anchor the past could be. It was exhausting to talk to Harry at that moment, when all he wanted was to speak to Severus, to hear his quiet words. It was as if he gained energy from Severus: he was a new man towards him, after all.   

As if on cue, the darkly dressed man stepped back from the shadows and the night and into the flickering light of their campsite. Sirius wanted to pretend that Severus hadn’t heard what was said between himself and Harry and his friends, but the evasiveness of his eyes made it difficult for Sirius to believe his own wishes in this instance.   

“Harry doesn’t think much for my capacity to change, it seems.” Sirius spoke.   

Severus looked deep in thought and Sirius wondered if he was in the dog house with Severus as well as Harry... or if he had overstepped in even thinking he could be in anything else with Severus.   

The tension made Sirius want a drink, the thought made him afraid.   

“You can’t remember what happened when you was in the Veil, can you?” Severus finally spoke, still facing away as if examining the trees in great detail.   

Sirius looked up at him, at the back of his stunningly dark hair that skimmed his shoulders. He wondered why this was the thing he focused on, as if it was the only thing about the entire conversation that he had overheard that was comfortable enough to bring up.   

“Not a thing.” Sirius added, for good measure.   

Sirius watched him pace before eventually making his way to the fallen tree trunk that he was sat upon, sitting beside him, close enough for Sirius to see the nervousness on his face.   

“Have you tried to?” Severus asked.   

“Of course I have.” Sirius felt a headache of anger brewing within him at the question.   

It was one thing to have Harry think he was being a bully to Severus again- he had form for that, he knew. But it was another thing entirely for Severus to ask him a question that insinuated that he was a fool. As if he hadn’t tried to remember the last two years of his life.   

“...What, exactly, have you tried?” Severus expanded, taking a risk with the mood Sirius was feeling.   

“What have I tired?” Sirius repeated, turning to face him full on, forcing Severus to look at him if he was going to really ask him these questions, “people shouldn’t need to try to remember things, Severus. I shouldn’t have to try .”  

“Because things have always come naturally to you, I presume.” Severus summarised, the criticism embedded within his words like marrow in bone.   

A zapping rage run through Sirius and he had the self-awareness to catch it before it caught Severus.   

“What are we doing?” Sirius asked, in a loss, “what are we doing arguing like this?”  

“I’m not trying to cause a fight,” Severus sighed, “I just... wanted to help. But I’ve gone about it all wrong.”   

Sirius felt the anger within him turn to guilt, for almost... snapping at him, for coming too close to the feelings that controlled him in their dismal history.  

“How can you help me?” Sirius asked, at a loss for what could actually be offered.   

He had grown used to not knowing the past, in a way. He had grown used to this retracted information where his time in the Veil lay. He thought about it, thought about how he had... tried to remember. In his own way. But, in hindsight, he knew that was hardly true. When confronted with his inability to recall this time immediately, and with ease, he had shut down.  

 It was as if his mind had seen the opportunity to not remember and had run away with it.   

As if his mind knew, somehow, and had taken the executive decision to forget and just not tell him.   

“Have you seen a Mind Healer?” Severus began, starting with the most professional means of support.   

“No.” Sirius confessed, “between returning from the Veil and learning that nearly everyone I know and loved .... is dead... and then going off searching for you, there was just drink. Just... drink.”   

Severus met his eyes, his black eyes cautious. Sirius could see the blur of words perched perilously on his lips, as if unsure if he should speak.   

“I am not sure if this is something you are aware of, but I am a Legilimens.” Severus shared.   

This was information that Severus preferred to keep hidden. When people had learned this about him, they acted as if he would dip into their heads like someone helping themselves to a biscuit in a jar without asking.   

“Yes, you taught Harry Occlumency.” Sirius thought back, “the two are linked, in a way.”   

“I tried to teach Potter Occlumency.” Severus corrected with a tut, “but yes, they are linked. There is not one without the other. Do you have any skill with Occlumency?”  

Sirius shook his head.   

“In that case, if you were to agree, I could use Legilimency to see if this could bring the memories to the surface for you.” Severus spoke, letting the offer linger in the air when the sound of his words finally cut out.   

Sirius considered the weight of these words, the offer that Severus was handing over to him. The chance to have a piece of his life back together, to fill this black space he had no other way of ever getting back.   

He closed his eyes, taking in the irony of this offer. He was here- on Drobhna, because he had been tasked with catching Severus. Completing this task was suggested to offer a means of unlocking these memories within him, supposedly. And here he was, sat with Severus- the man still a key, still a gift.  

Just in ways neither of them had anticipated.   

“Ignore me. I understand the suggestion is... unpleasant.” Severus shivered, remembering all the times Voldemort had dived into his mind and he had to pretend that this was something he was willing to endure.  

“What does it feel like?” Sirius asked, the question throwing Severus off slightly, “what? If this is something I’m going to try out... I’d rather have an inkling of what is involved from the start.”  

Severus just looked at him, knowing he was right, knowing it was only fair.  

But he didn’t ... he didn’t like talking about this.   

He saw Sirius look expectantly at him and somehow he made himself find the words.   

To meet him half way.   

“I... It is not pleasant.” Severus began, the words so honest that Sirius shuddered, his black eyes so raw and open before his, “it is indescribably horrifying to have your control lifted from your thoughts and memories. To have another presence inside your own head, to have your privacy invaded, your secrets uncovered if the person so chose to look for them. And, I had to let this happen, for years.”   

Sirius felt the ache in these words, the ache in these memories. To know that, for a short space of time, he had been present in Order meetings when these invasions must have been happening. He had not known. He had not known the burden- had refused to see this burden- when he had sat opposite the kitchen table from Severus during these meetings years ago.   

“Would you look around in my head? For any of the things you wanted to see but didn’t want to ask me?” Sirius asked, a lightness to his tone that did nothing to cover up the seriousness of his question.    

Severus’ eyes told him the answer.   

He felt foolish for even asking, but he needed to know before he agreed, needed to give his worries and concerns an exorcism before agreeing to something like this. It needed to come through his own voice, his words, rather than the paranoid thoughts that Severus might have come across in his head.   

He didn’t know anything about occlumency- he had no way to stop Severus once this started.   

“Okay. Okay, let’s try it.” Sirius announced, turning his body fully to face Severus, straddling the tree trunk he was sat upon.   

His attempts to convey confidence did not fool Severus, but he allowed Sirius to have that mirage of bravery because he needed it. It was necessary for him to face danger with his shoulders back, his head held high.   

Severus straightened his own shoulders back, clearing his own thoughts so he could understand the new ones he was about to see- thoughts that were not his own, thoughts that held answers to questions he desperately needed to know but would not seek. He was not Voldemort. He did not rummage and pillage people’s thoughts and memories for reality checks.   

He placed his hand upon Sirius’ cheek, his thumb brushing the skin beside Sirius’ grey eyes gently. Severus felt his chest tighten as he witnessed the flinching vulnerability in those eyes, a thing he never thought he would see within Sirius but there it was- and there will more be once he had a look inside his mind. Severus felt ill, unsure if he could do this, unsure if there was any good to come from this dive- let alone if there was any good in the uncovering of what had happened during Sirius’ time in the Veil.   

“Well, let’s get started then.” Sirius encouraged.   

The night felt darker as a breeze pushed through the lit fireplace, scattering the unity of the fire and dimming its light. A quietness lingered over them, as if the Roaming Woodland that stood around them loomed over to watch and listen to what was about to unfold.   

“Focus on the last thing you remember, before the Veil.” Severus instructed as calmly as possible, despite the quickening beat of his heart.  

Sirius remembered the Ministry Battle, he remembered fighting and feeling so alive for once, he remembered his cousin, Bellatrix, her focus and her drive that outstripped his foolish enjoyment to actually be there-  

Black eyes met grey eyes.   

“ Legilimens .”   

. . .  

Sirius watched it happen in slow motion, his feet melted to the floor despite the freedom he had as a ghost in his own head. He saw the unmistakable grin on his face, he remembered the sheer enjoyment he had felt at this moment- it was incomprehensible to him at the time that anything terrible and permanent would happen, that he would be struck by a spell of no real significance, knocked off balance, his feet pitter pattering and stammering for ground that no longer existed.  

He fell backwards.  

This was the line of all he remembered and he wondered if the black line of time would show up once he was gone again, the erasure of cognition and linear existence. He wondered when he would wake up again, years later, years gone by, lives born and ended in this time he had not been a part of-  

And then, like an expected epilogue-  

There was more.  

. . .  

The air was thick here. This grey air that should have been smoke, in Sirius’ attempts at placing the Veil into reality he felt the best association he could make with this thick grey air was cigarette smoke. He longed for a cigarette suddenly, and remembered that he had longed for a cigarette when his real-self had landed here two years ago. He felt this longing again, less strong this time- a reassurance within him that Severus could pull him out of this bleak space existed.   

He remembered yelling out, at the time:  

‘Where the fuck am I?’  

‘Harry? Where are you?’  

‘Remus?! Moony?’  

‘... Anyone?’  

The silence was heavy, the thick grey air made it hard for him to breathe, he remembered his chest heaving as panic began to settle in within him, his body a home to this sweaty fear, this frightful silence that chilled his blood.   

He ran, ran backwards as if he could run out the way he had come in.   

Nothing but grey, nothing but smog.   

Nothing but emptiness and all the things his head conjured up to fill up this space, this void, this blank space.   

If he didn’t bring his demons to the Veil the Veil would have made him a demon himself.  

Bringing his bad self to the surface, bringing his violence, his spite, his hurt to the surface prevented it from devouring him entirely- it kept it separate: if he could be hurt by this part of him then it remained a part and not the whole.  

. . .  

He screamed at himself, watching himself watch himself once again in the wreckage of James and Lily’s house.   

He watched, powerless to the things that had already happened, already been.  

Hagrid taking Harry from him.   

Hagrid taking Harry from him.  

And him letting it happen.  

With the torturous gift of hindsight, Sirius begged himself to go with Hagrid, to insist on keeping Harry’s welfare his priority instead of the mad violent rage within him, the grief that choked him all over again.   

He watched Hagrid take Harry away from him.   

He watched Hagrid take Harry away from him and did nothing.  

. . .  

“Sirius, look who it is, walking towards the library.”   

Sirius looked at himself looking at James, watching his eyes land on the lank haired young boy that James was pointing towards. He hated the sight of the sneer on his own face.   

“Lets try out the Glue-Stick darts we got before school started.” James suggested, handing him the heavy red ball with a needle at the end, “you throw it though, you have better aim than me and I don’t want to waste them.”  

Sirius didn’t need to be told twice.   

He watched himself throw the dart, hardly wasting time to take aim-  

The dark landed on Severus Snape’s robe, pinning him to the wall. He watched the shock explode on his expression, the tension erupt in a stress induced shout. He watched him assess the area for more attacks, for more hurt, his eyes heavy with anticipation and dread.   

When all that had landed on him next was laughter, Sirius noticed the sheer hurt and humiliation within him, the things he had not wanted to see at the time because he had dehumanised Severus to the point he didn’t even believe he was real.   

His memory self- the one he had landed in the Veil looked embarrassed- he remembered feeling embarrassed at himself for how he used to be. He remembered the confliction he had faced, the regret that maturity brought and the desperation to be youthful again just to spend this time with James once more.   

Remembering this moment in the Veil, he was split in two- wanting both James and Severus, wanting to have both his friend and the man he-  

“Good luck slithering your way out of that one, Snivellus.” His young voice laughed.   

He wanted nothing more than to undo the Glue-Stick dart, to free Severus from his trap against the wall. He found himself stepping forwards, watching the skeletal boy try to free himself like a deer with its leg stuck in a trap.   

He found himself joined by his Veil self, watching his face so full of regret, feeling as trapped within this lost land in the Veil as Severus had been at that moment in the past.   

. . .  

He stood beside Peter, having caught up with the Secret Keeper no one knew about. No one left but him who had known- this knowledge, this secret truth- he guarded this secret still even though the original secret was out.   

Peter had told Voldemort where James, Lily and Harry lived.   

“How could you, Peter?” Sirius watched himself ask.  

The rage flowed through him.  

It had made him so stupid.   

If he could go back to this moment, he would not have let this moment happen.  

He would have forced himself to go away- to disarm Peter before the murders started like an approaching rain cloud in the distance.   

But he could have even left before that- just left.  

He could have just told the world the truth whilst he still had the truth.  

Peter hadn’t taken the truth away from him- he realised that, as painfully and as horrific as it was to have that poison sink in, it was necessary, it was inescapable.  

Peter hadn’t forced him to be here in this time, Peter hadn’t made him not tell the world he was the secret keeper instead of him.   

He had handed the truth to Peter. He had handed all power to this traitor and he hadn’t even realised it yet.   

Because, even here, in this moment in time, the truth stacked against Peter, he hadn’t wanted to see it.   

He had wanted to hear Peter say it was all a mistake.  

He had wanted to hear Peter tell him it was all wrong.  

He wanted it all to be a bad dream.  

And in that denial of reality- his control of the situation was stolen from him.  

Peter did it all again, in the memories this time: death upon death stacked up behind him, muggle’s dead at his feet. His own finger cut from him.   

And then there was just grief.  

. . .   

Lunged backwards in time, further this time, he stood on the banks of the Great Lake in a place he would rather forget existed. He watched, helpless to stop this- the time to stop this was when it had first happened, after all.   

James flipping Severus up into the air, hanging him upside down and exposing him.   

He screamed at himself, screamed at himself for letting this happen. Each minute that passed, Severus’ skeletal body on show like some lurid exhibition of cruelty, was a minute of pain and humiliation- such red hatred seeped into his own soul. Such regret.   

“Who wants to see me take off Snivelly’s underwear?!” James had called out to the crowd.  

And this time he had stopped him, laughing that no one wanted to see that.   

. . .  

The grey air was thick.  

He could hardly breathe.  

. .  .  

“Go tap the root of the Whomping Willow. If you’re really that curious about what we’re doing down there each month, Snivelly.”   

. . .   

The grey air was thick.  

He could hardly breathe.  

. .  .  

“You could have killed him, Pads.” James had whistled, “and worse than that- what about Moony! He would have been blamed for it, he would have been sent to Azkaban, or worse!”  

Remus’ didn’t face him, couldn’t look at him.   

Sirius thought he was being a bit dramatic.  

Because nothing really happened, did it?  

“We have detention to go to.” James sighed, “just think next time, yeah? I hate Snivellus as much as anyone, but you take things a bit too far sometimes.”   

. . .   

The grey air was thick.  

He breathed in and drank it.  

Intoxicated on the fumes of whatever made this place whatever it was that made this place whatever it was that made this place hell this place is hell this place is hell   

If he had anything but demons within him perhaps this place could have been heaven? If he had things within him that weren’t tainted by the aggression he had used like rocket fuel through school, bomb powder against those who got in his way, who challenged his right to do whatever the fuck he had wanted - he eradicated their right to exist in peace.   

If he had any goodness within him, maybe this place could have been heaven.  

Maybe if he had truly enjoyed his time spent outside the grey fog of the Veil, perhaps if he had truly felt the things he had espoused, perhaps this place would have been heaven.   

But even at the time these memories happened there was a part of him that knew he went too far, went too hard, went too far over and again.   

A small dark dot of regret in his light of privileged laughter; a small light of conscience in the darkness of anger.  

The anger had given way- the anger had ruptured a vessel within him, flooding regret and grief and horror at himself. He saw his own reflection, veins leaking this bile, red criss-crosses of arteries split open upon his skin.   

He had bled out in red, rich and vivacious red, red of anger and shame, red of change.   

Like autumn leaves that knew that they must drop to grow anew.   

. . .   

And then he had woken up on the floor of the ministry having fallen back through the other side of the Veil. His head hurt from where he had landed on the foot of the arch that encompassed the Veil.  

The air was clear here.  

The air was clear here.  

He could not see the air here.   

He could breathe it in.  

His head hurt and he could not remember why he was thinking about the air.  

Grey air did not exist.   

Of course he could breathe...   

What was wrong with him?  

And, where had everyone gone?   

. . .   

He was cold. Despite the presence of the fireplace beside him, despite the warm hand against his face, cupping his cheek softly. He fell out of his own head, back to reality, to the present, to the moment there and then in the Roaming Woodlands.   

Black eyes still stared at him, even when he disconnected, even when he looked away.  

Shame heavy on his brow, he could not look Severus in the eye, knowing he had taken Severus back down into those horrible memories unprepared. The man’s face was a blank slate, expressionless.   

He didn’t need to be a genius to know that those memories would have hurt Severus as much as they had hurt him to see.   

“I- I need to go for a walk.” Sirius stepped up.  

“Sirius-” Severus coughed out.  

“I need to be alone.”   

Severus did not know what to say as he watched Sirius storm away through the trees.   

He didn’t know what to say or do, needing the quiet space for himself too.   

Needing to understand everything he had seen, had learned about this hell-scape called the Veil.   

He had been there too, in a shadow sense. He had stood in the long shadow of this Veil with Sirius, watching his two years pass by in history and memories and trauma.   

He stared into the fire, throwing a stick into the dimming light to give it more life.   

He just could not believe the regret he had felt from Sirius, the shame he had seen.   

Sirius truly did regret the way he had used to be.   

And he had regretted this past behaviour whilst in the Veil- before being asked to track Severus down by Runcorn, before getting stuck on Drobhna with him for a month. Before the kiss. Before the sex. Before all this.   

It was not a lie.   

This was the real Sirius Black.   

Chapter Text

The density of trees and the darkness of the night made it difficult for Sirius to build the momentum in his storming walk to release the pressure in his head. In the end, after tripping on a large tree root he had not seen, he transformed into Padfoot.  

Becoming Padfoot made things simpler.  

Whenever life got too overwhelming, too horrific, he had Padfoot to shoulder the burden like only a man’s best friend could do.   

As Padfoot, he could see in the dark. He could run and leap and sprint over the roots and bramble, he could hear the slow stepping of the Roaming Woodland who moved freely now he was a dog and not a man. The Roaming Woodland stepped with gargantuan steps, skinny footprints that dipped into the earth, the far run threads of their roots like string dangling from thick branch clusters.   

He just needed to make sense of it all.  

Images, scents, tastes, sounds, textures, it all came back to him- even the thumping of his chest reminded him of the heaving claustrophobic breathing of his lungs when he had been in the Veil. He found himself needing to stop running, stop rushing, the tightness in his lungs a triggering cave in within.   

He fell face down to the earth, his dog snout rubbing into the composting earth around him. A sour scent with wet mud. He recognised it from when he had been living in caves around Hogsmede to be close to Harry- a dead fox was close.   

He wished it didn’t, but the foul scent reminded him of Harry and the sacrifices he had made just to be nearby to support him. He missed Harry, missed being the godfather he had managed to be for just a small moment in time- the knowledge that he could have had more time made him even sadder; if only he had just gone with Hagrid instead of chasing Peter. He could have had more time.   

He had thought he had more time.   

He sobbed into the earth, a piteous howl of indescribable pain.  

There was something else carrying on the scent of decaying fox, Padfoot found himself confused by the scent, an untraceable whiff he struggled to name.   

He saw a cluster of fungi, dotted with eerie white spots that glowed in the moonlight that poked through the trees.   

As he inhaled the unknown scent, he found his lungs inhale with the mystery and his ears perked up in alarm: danger.   

He was in danger.   

His canine senses could feel it before his human senses.   

He found himself transferring back into his human form, spluttering on all fours as a sickness took over him.   

He wished Severus was there, he wished that he had Severus to save him, to treat him- the man was so smart and insightful, he would have diagnosed him and saved him by the time he had hit the floor.  

Passing out.   

. . .   

A cold chill brushed across the Roaming Woodland, the trees standing still as if making up for the movement it had made when it had been tricked by Sirius’ presence as Padfoot. The trees did not rush to help him.   

When he came to, he immediately knew that something was not quite right.   

He knew he was not alone.  

He pushed himself up from the dirt and on his hands and knees, finding himself face to face-  

With his own face.  

“What the fucking hell is going on?” Sirius cried out, rising to his feet defensively.   

He watched himself standing up, like a living mirror.  

Only this version of himself had white patches and white freckle like marks on his face- white dots that mimicked the fungi that scattered around the forest floor.   

“What the fuck am I looking at?” Sirius croaked, his voice barely audible.   

“You- you idiot.”   

The man had the same voice as he did.   

An exact double.   

He was as close to madness as possible, Sirius could feel the dread and the insanity absorb into his blood like poison and he struggled to make sense of this as much as he struggled to absorb the reintegration of his memories of the Veil.  

Nothing was making sense to him anymore.  

Ever since he had arrived back from the Veil- nothing made sense. People were dead and gone, the war had ended, his godson was grown up- he felt things for Severus and didn’t even know it. He had missing pieces in his head-  

And now it was all shoved back into his skull like an overflowing bin.   

“What’s the matter with you?” the Second Sirius asked him, patting his pockets for a cigarette.   

As ridiculous as it seemed, Sirius handed his Double a cigarette from his shirt pocket, the stick slightly crushed from where he had fallen over. The Double didn’t seem to mind, lighting it up and inhaling the first hit of smoke like it truly was the first cigarette it had ever tasted.   

He coughed.   

“What’s the matter with me? What’s the matter with you- if you can’t smoke that, give it here.” Sirius found himself taking the cigarette off him.   

Off himself.  

He found himself staring at himself in a way he had never looked before. He was looking at himself from the perspective of another person, from the outside looking in. He hadn’t realised how tall he was- he knew he was tall, but looking at himself from this angle, he saw how intimidating he could look: his broad shoulders, the muscles that had stuck by all this time despite the collapsing of his athleticism.   

He had a bored expression on his face, another thing that was intimidating about him- he had a face that told the world he would judge them for speaking, regardless of what they happened to say.   

No wonder people seemed to be on edge with him at first.  

No wonder Severus could not relax around him- until recently.   

He should have been more alarmed at the sight of this Double- its existence was a mystery to him but he was ... subdued.   

The first day of this adventure with Severus had been one unfolding after another. One challenge to his grasp on reality after another: first, the fact that there was something existing between himself and Severus; the existence of the Roaming Woodland; the wonders of Legilimency and now...   

This, apparent, fungi induced doubling.  

“Severus will be able to figure this out, right?” his Double suggested.   

Definitely, Sirius thought, he needed Severus to make sense of this.  

“Come on then, let’s walk back to camp.”   

. . .  

Severus didn’t want to be seen waiting all this time for Sirius to return.   

He wanted to pretend that he had spent the time alone perfectly fine by himself, as if his absence had meant nothing to him. As if he had just simply taken the opportunity to recuperate from all the walking that day and read his book.   

He had tried to read. He had picked up a book from his holdall as soon as he realised that Sirius was going to be a while sorting his head out. But all he could think about instead of the book was Sirius walking around and trying to get his head together after having it scrambled open by his Legilimens with the memories of that dire time he had spent in the Veil uncovered.   

It was not easy for him to see it, he thought to himself as he finally made his way inside the tent.   

He removed his shoes, his coat, stepping closer and closer to the bed that had made him blush when he had first seen it earlier that day. It had been a reminder of the night he had experienced with Sirius the night before- but seeing it now, it was a reminder that he was spending the night alone for the first time since he had arrived in Drobhna. Every other night he had at least known where Sirius was. They had been in the same house.   

He undressed himself, folding his shirt and trousers as he sat in a new pair of underwear on the bed. He felt a chill from the small gaps in the tent, the whistling wind outside the waterproof covering a reminder that the world outdoors was wild and unsheltered. He pulled on his nightshirt and a new pair of socks, his skin shivering as he made his way into the unslept in bed. He would have to rely on his own body heat to warm the bed and it made him... miss Sirius at that moment. The man was a walking heater, after all.   

He wondered where Sirius had got the sheets for this bed, the cotton soft against his bare legs. He wondered where this entire tent had appeared from, in addition to its internal homely contents; he had organised this entire adventure and yet he was not here to ask. He sighed heavily, rolling over with discomfort and found himself faced with the emptiness of the rest of the bed before him.  

It shouldn’t bother him, he insisted.   

It shouldn’t bother him at all- to have the bed to himself.   

But it did bother him, to know that Sirius was out somewhere in the Roaming Woodlands, so obviously disturbed by the things he could now remember all at once.   

It was bothering him.  

 He should have gone after him, Severus thought with regret, but knew it was pointless to think like this as Sirius had been very firm about wanting this space to himself. He had uncovered something distressing, upsetting, about what was involved within this time in the Veil. The disturbing memories he had conjured up to occupy the grey space of nothingness had been difficult to see as a spectator- more so as someone who was a participant to these memories when they had first occurred.   

If he closed his eyes, he saw the same memories that flashed through his mind.   

The ones that Sirius had been tormented by in his time in the Veil.   

The ones that Sirius had regretted to the very end of his soul.   

He had hated seeing the memories that involved himself, Severus had certainly not expected to see the worst days of his life from the other perspective.   

But, the fact that these memories had been tinted by Sirius’ utter regret and despair for what he had done and for how he had behaved had made the memories somehow less sharp, less vicious to him.   

They hadn’t been easy to see- but they hadn’t been exactly hard to witness again either.  

These memories had been dulled by time and the definite knowledge that Sirius was almost as hurt by these events as he had been- the fact that he could even entertain such a notion was testament to how illuminating the experience had been.   

How far he had come to... trust him, in a way.   

Was this trust reciprocated, Severus wondered.   

Was it possible that Sirius trusted him also?  

For Sirius to allow him to access his mind with Legilimency without having experienced this before was a bold decision to make.   

And Severus had seen the cautiousness on Sirius’ face, after all- Severus had told him how horrifying it could feel to have someone else in his mind and yet...  he had still agreed to it.   

Was that trust?   

Or was it just a desperation to finally have the answers to the unknown come back to him?  

Had he done something wrong, Severus considered, to give Sirius exactly what he had asked for? It may have been something he had wanted to know, but... Severus wondered if this was really true. Sirius had, admittedly, not tried the options that are available for wizards with memory issues. But this lack of treatment seeking was compounded by the grief he was going through, the adjustment he had to make the time skip he had experienced.   

The fact that when he left, the war had just started and then when he came back it had just ended.   

Is that why he has been gone so long? Severus was tired of the cyclic nature of his thoughts, these unanswerable loops of self-doubt tied up in a bow with Sirius’ name on top. He rolled over again, his face pressed into the firm pillow.   

He found it hard to breathe with his face obstructed by the cotton pillow casing, but at least he could no longer see the empty space beside him. The thump of his own pulse filled his ears, his sense of smell obstructed by the cotton that smelled of nothing; this was sensory deprivation and it helped him slow his mind down to a steady beat instead of the cacophony that burst through his thoughts.   

“Severus? Are you awake?”   

Severus lifted his face from the pillow with a jolt, turning over and seeing Sirius stood sheepishly by the half-zipped doorway to the tent.   

A blustering breeze made its way throughout the tent and Severus shivered into the blanket, eyebrows tightening with the discomfort.   

“Yes. I’m awake.” Severus shivered, “close the tent, it’s freezing.”    

“Right. In a moment. I just need to... show you something.” Sirius seemed halfway between bursting out into laughter and running his hand through his hair like a stressed comb.   

“What do you need to show me that can’t be done by zipping the tent up?” Severus asked, exasperation in his tone, “where did you go?”   

“There’s no easy way to explain this, so I’ll just start from the beginning.” Sirius spoke, pacing between the bed and the open tent doorway, “I walked off to clear my head. Sometimes when I get really wound up, or stressed, it helps to turn into Padfoot and be a dog for a bit. Only I ended up sniffing some weird fungi as Padfoot and the spores must have done something because I started to feel unwell.”  

Severus kept his eyes on him, fixatedly following his pacing, waiting for the bomb to drop with trepidation.   

What was wrong with him?   

What had happened?   

“I must have passed out. And when I came to... well, there were two of me.” Sirius explained.   

“...Two of you?” Severus repeated, as if hearing a terrible joke.   

“Yes.” Sirius confirmed, “the fungi must have done it, I’m not entirely sure what it is though-”  

“Show me.” Severus made his way out of the bed, grabbing the pair of trousers he had folded up beside the bed, grabbing his coat to protect him from the wind.   

He walked towards Sirius, passed him, towards the tent doorway.   

“Wait! Severus-” Sirius gasped.   

Severus stood outside and found himself confronted with a second Sirius, one identical in almost every way to the one stood inside the tent, only this one had white circular streaks in his dark wavy hair, white dots on his skin like freckles.   

“As I said... there’s two of me.” Sirius repeated, seeing the shock on Severus’ face.   

The Second Sirius looked almost amused by the expression on Severus’ face, one of shock and unexpectedness. He evidently had Sirius’ splendid personality as well as near identical appearances.   

His eyes traced the white dots and white streaks on the Second Sirius and sighed. With these tell-tell markers, Severus realised he didn’t need to see what this fungi was that Sirius had come into contact with as Padfoot. It was Dichoti-Fungi, a rare parasitic fungus that latched onto dead animal carcass.   

With a Roaming Woodland, he hypothesised, it could be just as likely for a tree to step and crush an animal as much as the food chain that existed within this forest ecosystem. A Dichoti-Fungi was not all together rare, but it was a nuisance that communities attempted to eradicate whenever they came across it.   

Otherwise, things like this would happen with regularity...   

Animal populations would swell, people would find doubles of themselves...   

“There is... no need for me to go see the culprit.” Severus sighed, finding it odd to be stared at by the two near identical Sirius’.   

“Are you sure?” The Second Sirius asked.   

“What has caused this?” Sirius asked, following Severus back inside the tent.   

“A fungi, like you said.” Severus answered, hanging his coat back up and removing his boots, “you’ll be back to normal by the morning.”  

“That’s a relief.” Sirius exhaled, removing his own boots and coat.   

“You can show me where you found the Dichoti-Fungi tomorrow, however, as it needs to be destroyed.”   

Severus made his way back to the bed, suddenly very tired after the adrenaline tipping discovery and the somewhat anticlimactic answers to his questions.   

He began to remove his trousers to go back to sleep and found himself pausing self-consciously as the Second Sirius made his way into the tent, zipping the door up with normality.   

“And just where do you think your guest will be sleeping tonight?” Severus spoke, an almost iciness to his tone, a defensive posture in his raised shoulders.   

“In here with us, obviously.” Sirius cocked an eyebrow in amusement, “I’m not putting myself outside like a poorly behaved dog, Severus. If I can get over seeing two of me, then you’ll just have to move passed it as well. After all, he’ll be gone by the morning you said.”  

Severus just wanted to sleep at this point and he found it hard to put into words just what was unsettling to him most in that moment. During his time on Drobhna with Sirius, he was finding his impressions of Sirius challenged and confronted with such regularity- was being in the same space as two temporary Sirius’ really that unsettling? Was it a hangover sense of danger that lingered inside him like a rotten apple stuck to a tree branch?   

He watched as the two Sirius’ undressed, both men tattooed identically, although the white dots were scattered across the Second Sirius’ bare chest as well as his hands and face.   

He felt his body heat up at the realisation that both men were making their way to the bed to join him.   

He remembered how cold he had felt moments before, laying in the bed alone.   

It seemed impossible, incomprehensible, to see how his space would be taken up by two Sirius’ at that moment but then he found himself surrounded.   

The real Sirius laying on one side of him, the Second Sirius on the other.   

A smirk sat on the real Sirius’ face as he saw the unblinking alarm he mistook for stoicism on Severus.   

“Well, you’re taking this a lot better than I thought you would,” Sirius grinned, brushing his face against the pillow fabric beside Severus.   

He patted the pillow space beside him, encouraging Severus to lay down.   

Severus turned his eye to the Second Sirius, laying on his back with a smidge of self-awareness on his face, seeing how awkward his additional unintentional presence was presenting to Severus. He rested the back of his head on his forearm, grey eyes looking through the transparent window above the tent, seeing the darkness of the trees above.  

“Severus, lay down.” Sirius smirked, “I know it’s weird, but you need rest, I need rest- and I suppose this second me needs rest before he disappears.”  

Severus slowly, cautiously, began to lower himself back down into the bed, the warmth radiating so delightfully that he found it almost impossible to draw himself away despite the incredulousness of the situation. But he found it hard to close his eyes, to relax, to rest.   

Not when he was bracketed between two identically handsome, equally beautiful, men.   

“Sirius, about earlier on-” Severus tried to discuss, as a means of changing the focus of his attention.  

“Not now. Rest.” Sirius assured, his closed eyes opening to see Severus’ expression of concern within his heavy dark eyes, wide and unrelentingly  open, “I’m okay, I promise. The walk did help me get my head into place. We will talk about it in the morning if you like.”   

This seemed to be just enough to convince Severus to close his eyes and once he did, he found it impossible to open them again, preferring the black unconscious to the preposterous position he found himself in. He just tried not to move too much, the thought of bumping against the Second Sirius was strangely intimidating to him.   

It was like being face to face with the schism he had established in his mind that existed since his attraction to Sirius had begun years ago: the two Sirius’, the one he had always wanted to have his feelings returned by, and, the hurtful one.   

The two Sirius’ that haunted the back of his mind even when they had kissed, even when they had sex.   

Now he was sleeping with both.   

. . .  

The heat was something Severus had never known before, a total warming that sunk down to his bones. He had always been cold, his body incapable of catching heat and holding it long enough to feel. Long enough to benefit from. But here, in this tent, in this bed, he was almost sweating from it.   

Hands caressed his body, palms and fingers pressing against his back, his thigh, as if he was a puzzle to be solved, a lock to be opened. He felt the sum of these hands and the chest pressed against his back, and the math did not add up. He scrunched his face, half asleep half awake, feeling lips against his forehead.   

A second pair of lips pressed into the back of his neck and Severus shot his eyes open in alarm.   

“What are you doing?” he spoke, sitting himself up.   

“You started it.” Sirius stated, simply and petulantly, “you were rubbing yourself up against me in your sleep, and then you rolled over and woke him up too.”   

The Second Sirius had not let go of his thigh, his eyes lingering on the rising hemline as his strokes against his skin lifted his nightshirt higher up his legs.   

Severus hitched his breath, the sensations so overwhelmingly strong within him. He felt the hardness within his underwear and he knew that Sirius was telling the truth.   

He had not wanted to be aroused in this moment- but having two Sirius Blacks in his bed was something he had never dreamt of before and had not anticipated the effect this would have on him.   

He was hot- actually hot- with desire.   

“You can’t be serious.” Severus balked, a forced protest in his voice that even his body did not believe, but someone needed to keep their sense.   

“I am, and he is too.” Sirius smirked, ridiculously amused by the expansion of his pun.   

The hand on his thigh was joined by a second hand, plying his nightshirt from beneath him to lift over his head. He knew that he had lost the will to fight this. He could not deny the temptation he felt, as soon as the nightshirt had been pulled from him and he sat with his chest bare, his legs bare, his eyes feasting upon the bareness of the men that surrounded him.   

He focused his gaze on his Sirius, the real one, the one that would still be here when morning eventually came.   

He felt his Sirius’ mouth meet his in a devouring kiss, wet and hungry, possessively tasting him as the Second Sirius kissed his chest, his chin brushing against his rib bones as he trailed his lips upward, lingering on his nipples with cool exhalations, causing Severus to groan into Sirius’ lips.   

“I have a feeling you are going to enjoy this as much as I am.” Sirius spoke against his ear, his voice a teasing whisper.   

“You can’t tell me ... that this ... is something you have wanted,” Severus smirked, feeling the Second Sirius’ mouth biting against his collarbone, rising to his jaw.   

Sirius found his own eyes lifting from Severus to meet the eager eyes of his double, seeing the flickers of lust on his cheeks as he guided Severus to his knees. Sirius watched his Double with such delirium inducing arousal growing on his face, watching as someone with his own hands slowly slip Severus’ underwear down passed his thighs, his hard cock bouncing freely against his concave stomach.   

He felt frozen in place, on his own knees on the bed within the tent, watching someone who looked the same as he did press Severus forward, the man submissively compliable to these second hands, these second lips. He watched him find himself on his hands and knees before him, his dark hair falling over his face and his shoulders tensing as he felt the double’s hands slide down his back from his shoulders, slipping down to his hips and exposed buttocks.   

A bizarre jealousy took root within him as he watched the Second Sirius so autonomous from himself, feasting upon Severus as his lips followed his hands down his back, his body looming over him as he placed his lips down towards the small of his back, biting into the slightness of his cheeks, leaving bite marks that would last longer than his own existence.   

He heard Severus cry out at that bite, the roughness unexpected and anticipated in a confusing blend of arousal that flushed across Severus’ face as his head lifted, his back arching, his hair parting.   

He could not just sit there and watch, as confusing and delightful as it was to witness from this perspective what it looked like for him to fuck Severus, his own body sought to please and be pleased by this experience.   

This one off, spontaneous, exciting encounter in the Roaming Woodland.   

He stepped out of his own underwear, his hard cock craving touch, screaming for contact.   

His grey eyes lingered on his double as he knelt down, his face burying between the small cleft of cheeks as he rimmed Severus, the man gasping and keening, his voice tight with the sensation of having his sensitive nerves licked and kissed so wantonly. He saw this open, parted mouth gasping with tremoring delirium. He found himself stroking Severus’ hair, his face, a soothing touch to counterweight the overwhelming touch of his Double’s tongue pushing through his hole.   

Black eyes met his eyes, as open and trusting as his eyes had been when they had met earlier that evening, when Sirius had offered his mind to Severus to unravel the mystery of the Veil for him.   

Sirius saw the same open vulnerability he had felt, the same offering of his self, the same trust that he would cause him no harm.   

He felt a hand wrap around his buttocks, Severus’ hand lifting from where he supported his own body, pulling him cock-first towards his open mouth and wrapping his lips around his shaft. Sirius felt his eyes slam shut, his mind turn blank and white as Severus sucked him like the sucking counterbalanced the pleasure he felt from the Double kneeling behind him.   

Sirius dared peek his eyes open to watch his Double plying Severus’ thighs open wider, watching as a hand met his tongue, as a finger slipped through the hole that his Double must have lubricated whilst he was distracted with Severus’ mouth.   

Vibrations of bliss traversed through his shaft as Severus groaned around him, the pressure of his closed mouth releasing as his lips parted for breath.   

Severus peered upwards, his eyes half shut with the pleasure that rocked through him as the Second Sirius thrust his fingers in and out of him. He found himself kissing the tip of the real Sirius’ cock, eyes catching the sight of the real Sirius gazing downwards at him on his knees.   

He could not believe this, he could not believe the unfolding of these events, the depravity of the sexual appetites Sirius induced from him. This was not the first threesome he had experienced, but this was certainly the first one he had enjoyed so dementedly. He was in the middle of this exchange, but instead of the usual sense of being used – he felt centralised within this, spoiled as his insatiable greed became considerably closer to satiation, as the Second Sirius pressed the tip of his cock against his slick hole, his hands joined by the real Sirius as both men held his hips, his buttocks, plying his cheeks open as he pushed himself inwards...  

Severus felt in tandem with the two men, the doubled gorgeousness that enveloped him with pleasure. He sucked the real Sirius, his jaw tight with focus, driving himself through the slamming that struck him from behind. He felt his own hard cock swinging with the momentum, striking against his stomach, the sensitive head smacking against skin in such a teasing way he heard himself beg for touch, plead for touch.   

The real Sirius lifted him upwards, the Second Sirius still thrusting behind him as he watched the real Sirius kneel down before his upright form, kneeling himself down so he was face to face with Severus’ rippling cock. Sirius brushed his bearded face against the tormentingly hard cock, the Second Sirius holding Severus upwards with his arms plying his arms fixed upwards. The only touch that could relieve Severus would be Sirius’, the real or Doubled.   

“Watch me suck you off,” the Second Sirius whispered, breathlessly thrusting into his body with reckoning pace, with a franticness that came from knowing he would be disappearing by day-break, “watch my lips wrap around your cock.”  

And Severus did, his body under the submission of both men, the same man doubled, pleasuring him with the pounding of his thick cock inside him and the tight mouth around him.   

He was crying out, a total loss of control as if his body was no more his. He felt as if his body had surrendered so totally to bliss, to Sirius- both, of him, totally him, the past, the present- it all amassed into one collective bolt of bliss as his body rocked in tandem to the thrusting of the Second Sirius behind him and the real Sirius’ mouth taking him in before him.   

And then he felt the real Sirius pull away, grabbing him, a switching him around, a jealous growl to his actions as he fell to his back, pulling Severus on top of him, his back slick with sweat against his chest. He used his muscular thighs to pry Severus’ legs open again, his hand traversing their bodies until he lined the head of his cock with the slippery hole, pressing himself through the tightness as Severus groaned and arched his back into the pounding.   

Sirius felt the man so hot, so warm, his body resting above his as he breathed so frantically, thrusting his hips upwards, pounding and fucking with feverish delight, in competition with his Double to please Severus more.   

He felt the bed dip slightly as his double made his way towards their heads, his hands guiding Severus face to turn towards him, plying his gasping lips open with his fingers as he slipped his cock inside his mouth, fucking his mouth, his hips swinging against his mouth, the back of Severus’ head bumping against the side of his as they rutted and bucked and groaned into each other like a lust-drenched triangle.   

“I told you.... you would enjoy this as much as I would.” The real Sirius gasped breathlessly chasing his orgasm, incapable of holding back as the tension built up within his testicles, his stomach tightening with the impending release.   

The euphoria was outrageous, the bliss was tantamount to a crime within him.  

Sirius fought Severus’ mouth for a kiss, his lips brushing against his own cock- the Double’s cock, he reminded himself, as if this made a difference. The sheer perversion of this contact made him shudder, his own lips against his own cock - he found himself fighting Severus lips for kisses and sneaking contact with parts of his own body he would never have known before tonight.  

  A parasitic fungi, of all things, opening doors far wider than his own imagination could .   

The wet slickness of his cock against his lips, against the side of his face, wet from Severus’ mouth, the slick of Severus’ lubricated hole- oh, Merlin, he would suck the lube from his Double’s cock if it meant tasting parts of Severus like this.  

He felt his cock stiffen with the naughtiness, the taboo, the utter depravity of his mindless thoughts in this scenario...   

He groaned, a body splitting cry of euphoric bliss dividing him in two as his cock released within Severus, filling him with pearl white cum as he lay sweaty and breathless and glowing from the rocking orgasm within him. He felt Severus rut against his spent cock, demanding and pleading for his body to be fucked-  

Thank Merlin for the Double, the real Sirius found himself thinking with relief as the Double pulled his cock from Severus’ lips, making his way to the end of the bed where Severus’ hole rutted against the softening cock inside him. The real Sirius hooked his knee with his arm, his other arm wrapped around his waist to reach for his achingly hard cock as the Double lined his cock once again to his begging hole-  

“Oh,” Severus groaned, the sensation of having the double’s cock press inside him, alongside the real Sirius’ cock.   

The tightness.   

The fullness.   

It was dripping from his gasping voice.   

Sirius felt his mind unravel at the salaciousness, the depravity, of feeling his spent cock brushed up against his still hard and rutting cock, filling Severus’ hole to such a tightness, such a stretching tightness that Severus’ body screamed as the Double fucked him, as the real Sirius stroked him so relentlessly, his mind shattered to pieces.  

Severus didn’t even realise he had came, his mind whiting out with such euphoria, his body transcending the existence of carnality, beyond the bodily realms of reality.   

He was a quivering mess, body held in place so soothingly by the real Sirius, the Double groaning as he finally came inside him, his pearly cum joining the real Sirius in a flood of bliss.   

He found himself breathing heavily, his body so sweaty and spent upon the real Sirius, muscular arms wrapped around him so strongly, so assuringly, he could hardly believe these arms around him.   

“Oh fuck, Severus, oh fuck.” The real Sirius groaned in delight, “that was... I’m speechless.”  

Severus was too spent to counter argue Sirius’ ridiculous statement, the babbling wonder of his delirium.   

He was too... content, too perfectly content.   

The Double lay himself down on the pillow, a smug satisfaction to his face as he dipped into sub consciousness, fully aware that his existence was temporary and, much like a marsupial that mated itself to death, was content to ride what was left of his life on the wave of this bliss.   

. . .  

Severus woke up slowly, a beam of sunlight passing through the trees and striking through the transparent window of the tent. He scrunched his eyes up, grimacing at the disturbance to his sleep. He stretched his body out in the bed, his muscles taut and his limbs weary. There was a depletion to his energy, a familiar weakness within him that made it difficult to move. It had been a while since he had woken up so weak, but it was a rarity to say the least that he had a night like the one he had last night.   

He forced his body to shuffle forwards towards the edge of the bed, where his holdall lay on the ground. He stretched his arm out, grabbing a healing potion the pockets. He winced as he sat himself up, knocking the potion down him in a quick swig.   

Looking around the tent he saw that, where the bed had once been so crowded, so full of unravelled carnality, it was quiet now. A warmth to it that suggested that this was a recent vacancy and Severus wondered if he had the energy to summon to walk outside and have a cigarette where he hoped to find Sirius- the real one, just the real one. He wasn’t sure he could face the Double again.   

As he stepped through the zipped door to the tent, he felt a shock at the sight of the world around him. Where they had been surrounded by trees the night before, where the sky had been so shielded by the thick ceiling of leaves and branches was now a blue sky with small scatterings of wet rain clouds drizzling from above.   

“I guess the Roaming Woodland walked off whilst we slept, whilst we couldn’t see them.” Sirius’ voice spoke from beside the tent, having seen Severus poke his head out.   

“What happened to your ... guest ?” Severus brought up.   

“He’s gone too.” Sirius smirked.   

Severus lit his cigarette and noticed a faint red tint to the other man’s cheeks, just below the beard he grew. He nodded at the news, the confirmation of the exit, the ending of the temporary existence of a man that had propped up their sexual deliriousness in the night, had provided a springboard for the salacious exploration of both their bodies, their minds.   

Now the Roaming Woodland had moved passed their campsite, the tent looked out of place in the middle of a field. They looked exposed to the wilderness in ways that they had not noticed the day before. Severus sensed the exposure he felt was exasperated by the untethered night before, the unravelling, the breathless, euphoria he had been brought to-  

“Does it count as incest?” Sirius spoke suddenly, taking a deep inhale of his cigarette.  

Severus turned slowly, face etched in confusion.  

“If you ... you know, lick your own cock. Is it incest?” Sirius asked.   

“You’re not technically related to yourself, are you?” Severus answered, finding it easier to just answer the question in front of him, “it is a bit narcissistic, however, wouldn’t you say?”   

Sirius nodded to himself slowly.   

The ridiculousness of the conversation made him splutter into laughter, causing Severus to smirk.   

“I am shocked at how... open you are.” Sirius found himself confessing, “you seemed so uptight before.”  

“You gave me no reason to be anything else before.” Severus took a long drag on his cigarette, before stubbing it out at the end, “and besides, you’re here for a month. It seems a waste to say ‘no’ when in a months’ time I will be a celibate hermit.”   

Sirius found it.... hurt to hear the timeline on this experience, this existence on Drobhna with Severus.   

He already knew the countdown existed, for when he had to get on the Portboat and go home, but he didn’t want to listen to Severus speak of it too.   

It made it an agreed reality, rather than the negotiation his heart hoped to open.   

His heart was the only one willing to put itself on the table like a hand of cards.   

His brain told him to dream on.   

“How does it feel to have your memories back?” Severus asked.   

“A bit underwhelming- everything that happened in the Veil was a projection of my own isolation, wasn’t it?” Sirius assessed, fixing his eyes on Severus.  

It seemed more important to him at that moment that he make sure that Severus was okay.  

“I’m sorry that you saw all that.” Sirius stated, “I mean- I’m sorry it happened to begin with. You have no idea how sorry I am-”  

“I do know.” Severus interrupted, “I do know how sorry you are.”  

Sirius wasn’t sure what to say, maybe he didn’t need to say anything.   

“It helps. A bit,” Severus shared, lighting another cigarette as an awkwardness fell upon him, a bashfulness on his face, “seeing those memories didn’t hurt as much as I would have expected. Because your regret was the filter that we saw those memories through.”   

This was all that mattered to Sirius and it shocked him.  

He had wanted his memories of the Veil back, more than anything he had wanted the memories of this time because it was the only thing he had of the time where everything and anything had happened- a time where wars had started and ended, where people had lived and died...   

Now he had his slice of time returned back to him: and, in itself, it was a letdown.   

But it had made Severus look lighter, it had exorcised the nightmares that existed between them- at least some of the mistrust had been resolved.   

He remembered the man’s body resting against his, writhing with the pleasure of having him hold his legs open, stroke his cock and pound into him all at the same time.   

He remembered the groans between his kisses, the taste of his own cock as he fought for space upon his lips with each kisses.   

Sirius smiled at him, an uncontrollable twitch to his moustache as he smiled a smile so rich and satisfied.   

Severus seemed to have that effect on him, it seemed.   

Chapter Text

Harry grabbed a few clothes from his bedroom drawers and threw them towards his bed. Ginny was sat on the edge of his bed, examining the clothes that he threw towards the suitcase she had offered him for the holiday. The only suitcase Harry owned was the one from school and that was a bit big for a week’s break at the Tristany Ruins.  

“Do you really want to bring these shorts?” Ginny asked, holding up a pair of lurid red shorts that looked as if they would meet Harry mid-thigh, “as... handsome as I’m sure you would look, the Ruins is hardly a place for your short shorts. Plus, it tends to be a bit cold this time of year.” 

“Oh. I thought there would be a beach.” Harry kept the disappointment out of his voice.  

“There is, but... not a hot one.” Ginny shrugged, admiring the red shorts, wondering where on earth Harry had got these from.  

“So what should I pack then?” Harry asked.  

Having never been on a holiday, he was feeling a bit out of his depth.  

Ginny made her way towards him, a small smile on her face. Sometimes she hated being short, but, other times, she liked the fact that she could wrap her arms around Harry and feel his chest against her ears. Hear his heart thump. She liked how he could wrap his arms around her too, his arms wrapping around her shoulders like a cape.  

She knew that Harry had never been on a holiday before- and it wasn’t like she had been on loads growing up, but she had been to Tristany Ruins a lot when she was growing up. Before school took over anyway and it became less affordable for the family to go abroad (until they won the lottery and went go Egypt to see Bill!). She knew the kind of family life Harry had come from and it made her so ill to think of the neglect he had faced.  

“Pack that cute hoodie I won you at the fair a few weeks ago.” Ginny smirked, “and cargo shorts, or jeans. Something waterproof would work out well too. Trust me, the rain can pelt down a bit. Mum always insists we go this time of year because it saves a bit of money, I told her that we can all pitch in now! But, well, it’s tradition now I suppose.”  

“I’m happy to be part of this tradition.” Harry beamed, “I have a raincoat somewhere, I’m sure I do...” 

“It’s a nicer place than I’m describing, by the way.” Ginny laughed, letting go of Harry to sit back down, “me and Ron have a lot of good memories there, he won’t say it but he’s really looking forward to bringing you and Hermione there too.”  

Harry carried on packing. The plan was: he would bring his suitcase over to the Burrow, they would all have a family dinner before an early night so they would wake up early to reach the portkey station at the Ministry in time to depart. He found himself smiling at all times, breaking out in grins when he thought about the upcoming week away ahead: a family holiday.  

“Have you heard form Sirius today?” Ginny asked, knowing that Harry was happy to talk about his godfather a lot more since the man had stopped drinking.  

“Yeah, he’s finally out of the Roaming Woodland and he’s making his way towards a lighthouse.” Harry recalled, “he’s got his memories back from the Veil. Severus helped him- Snape-” 

“I know who Severus is.” Ginny reminded, “he was my teacher too.”  

Harry rolled his eyes. Sometimes he found it difficult to remember Severus Snape as a teacher, not after learning so much about him through his memories, not after the sacrifices he learned he made. It was not enough to think of him as a teacher he hated, he preferred to think of Severus as the war hero because he felt so foolish for thinking the worst of him for years.  

“Well, yeah, he used Legilimency to help Sirius get his memories back.” Harry recalled what Sirius had told him in their most recent conversation through the Two-Way Mirror. 

“Why would Snape do that for Sirius?” Ginny asked sincerely, “I thought he hated Sirius’ guts."  

Harry’s eyebrows knotted together, wondering why he hadn’t considered how weird it was that he hadn’t ... wondered why.  

“Maybe he can see just how much Sirius was lost without those memories.” Ginny offered, “he did seem a mess before. No offence.” 

Harry couldn’t take offense from that sentence. It was undeniable what a mess Sirius was- it was horrific to reflect back on his drunkenness. But it was also not possible to take offense because Ginny had said he was a mess ‘before.’ He seemed happier since they were talking through the Two-Way Mirror. He seemed reflective and at peace.  

“I just... can’t believe they are both alive.” Harry sighed, “when Sirius went off on that stupid search for Severus, I thought it was a waste of time because ... I saw him die. At least, that’s what it looked like. It really did look like it. But then again, it really did look like Sirius died too.” 

“It looked like you died and all.” Ginny nudged him in the waist gently, “I think we are all lucky to have people come back during the war. I, obviously, love the fact that you are also not dead-” 

“Always good to hear.” Harry interrupted with a smirk.  

“And we are happy that Sirius is alive again.” Ginny smiled. 

A silence stretched out, an awkward admission of the obvious.  

“But who has Severus got?” Harry found himself asking, “from his memories, I don’t think he had family. He doesn’t seem to have friends.” 

“He’s not exactly known for his sparkling personality, Harry. I don’t think he wants us pitying him like you are.” Ginny rolled his eyes, “but I see what you mean. He fought for us in the war. He sacrificed so much- and yet, he’s officially known as a war criminal in the Ministry. Everyone hates him.” 

“I don’t hate him.” Harry sighed, “it’s definitely complicated. But I don’t.”  

“Look at you, all grown up.” Ginny smiled, “I guess I have a year to catch up with your maturity, I’m still pissed he gave me detention for exploding a cauldron in second year.” 

“... But didn’t you-?”  

“Yeah, but not on purpose!” Ginny rolled her eyes.  

“I don’t like the fact that people think he’s evil .” Harry sighed, “that he murdered Dumbledore in cold blood. He’s being called all sorts in the Daily Prophet still. That Rita Skeeta just keeps going on. I fucking hate it.”  

Ginny stroked his hand, knowing the complexities that existed surrounding Snape and Harry’s saviour complex that he had never grown out of...  

“Look, Sirius hasn’t killed him. He’s alive.” Ginny listed, “and, the big old dog has realised he’s not a Death Eater and so he will be coming back to England by himself. And Snape will have the peace and quiet he finally wants.”  

Harry sighed, thinking that things just didn’t really end up exactly fair in life- something Snape had told him once or twice before, in fact.  

His eyes landed on a pair of swimming goggles he had from when his aunt and uncle had been made to send him to swimming lessons by his teachers at primary school.  

“Will I need to bring swimming goggles?” Harry asked, picking the old things up and sensing they might be too small, “is the sea good for swimming in?” 

“It’s fucking freezing, Harry!” Ginny laughed.  

. . . 

Sirius took a deep breath and felt the wind smack against his bare skin.  

He felt his chest expand, his lungs fill with the chill, salt-tinged air with utter elation. He stretched his muscles, his thighs tensing before he finally began his count down:  

five... four... three... two... one.  

And he leapt, adrenaline and excitement screaming and interlinking together within his taut and muscular body.  

He leapt through the air, from the steeps of the cliff into the high tide below, his body screaming alongside his voice, the air escaping him and leaving him completely breathless as he slipped headfirst into the sea.  

His skin tightened impossibly as he struck and sunk beneath the surface of the freezing ocean, waves crashing above him as he dived deep down.  

He opened his eyes for a moment, seeing a dark underwater world, a world so inaccessible and so alien, seaweed and abandoned wreckages surrounded him. He made his way upward, pushing his body to the surface as he enjoyed the weightlessness of the sea. His face broke through the boundary of the sea and surface, inhaling a deep breath.  

Body bobbing on the waves, his skin constricting with the chill, warming with the shivers that wrecked through him.  

He began to swim, muscular arm pushing passed muscular shoulder as he made his way through the waves towards the shore.  

The tide was not on his side, pushing him back out to sea as he fought his way towards the pebbly beach, seeing the dark-haired man sat on a deck chair pretending to doze.  

He was sure, if the worst came to it, if the sea began to win the fight he was having with the tide, Severus would save him.  

It made fighting the tide that much easier, he found, to remember that he had someone on his side. It was always easier with someone to back him up, Sirius knew, managing to smile to himself despite the salty sea water slipping through his mouth as he smiled- finding it so wild that he actually had Severus on his side... And he loved it.   

He straggled his way through the heavy tide, his feet finding the smoothness of the pebbles beneath his toes. He dragged his wet body through the open air, the water dripping down his bare chest as he made his way across the wet stones towards the pair of deck chairs where Severus sat wrapped up in one of the blankets Sirius had packed for the adventure. Severus leaned upwards, throwing Sirius a towel to wrap himself up in.  

“Ah, I see you managed not to hit your head on the rocks.” Severus spoke, peering through his half opened eyelids. 

Sirius smirked at him, this man sat wrapped up in the thickest blanket, sat laying back comfortably in the deck chair like it was a hammock.  

“Yes, I survived.” Sirius grinned, wrapping the towel around his chilly wet body, wishing he had a bodysuit to protect him from the chill instead of the skimpy towel and his, now sea-soaked, pants.  

Severus made a non-committal sound, scrunching himself cosily into the deck chair and blanket, looking as comfortable as could possibly be despite the limitations of space the chair offered. Sirius thought he looked as cosy as a cat, tucked up on the chair. He also thought he looked tired and he was glad they had agreed to spend the day in peace along the seaside town, the Lighthouse town, on the map today.  

He joined Severus on the pair of deck chairs, laying back so comfortably he thought he might too fall asleep on the cool wind.  

“Are you going to take a dip in the sea at all?” Sirius asked with a smirk to his lips, knowing the answer in advance.  

“I’m already freezing cold, thank you very much.” Severus muttered without opening his eyes. 

“You look tired too.” Sirius smirked, a small degree of seriousness to his tone.  

Severus shrugged, closing his eyes again as he leaned back and enjoyed the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs and the shore. He had only opened his eyes and sat up to watch Sirius dive into the sea, the man insisting that he see him leap and flip like a child showing off to the only adult in the area.  

He felt his heart beat sway back and forth with the waves, a sense of peace washing over his feet that had been walking so much over the last few days since he and Sirius had started their adventure. He was glad to have his feet off the ground, even if his bare feet were rubbing against the sea-smoothed pebbles instead of the sand that covered the beach by the promenade, closer to where his cottage was located.  

Sirius looked out to the sea, recalling the explosive sense of adrenaline that had smacked through him as he had dived from the cliff edge.  

He had always been a thrill seeker.  

As a child he had been the one to climb the tallest trees in the gardens of the Pureblood families he had been dragged to visit by his mother.  

As a teenager he was the one committing to the steepest dives during Quidditch matches, at one point almost toppling over backwards, the bottom of his spine spilling over as if magnetised by the pull of gravity to the earth.  

It was the same pull that brought him over the edge of the cliff moments ago.  

“Would you like to have dinner at that restaurant by the gallery tonight?” Sirius asked suddenly, remembering the walk they had taken that morning through the town as they had arrived.  

He had grown used to the quietness of nature, the serenity of the fields and meadows that they had passed. They had slept over in the fields again, the tent somewhat quieter the night before without a surprising Double appearing to keep them both company... 

His cock stirred at the memory of that scandalous night.  

He would remember that night forever.  

He looked over towards the man sat beside him, waiting for a response but seeing that he had fallen asleep. He smiled to himself, letting the man have the rest he clearly needed. He peered at his long black lashes from his closed eyes, his long black hair billowing on the breeze. His hands were holding the blanket wrapped around him, his grip loosening as he fell further and further into sleep.  

He knew, in any other situation, if he was with any other person at that moment, he would be feeling the twinges of boredom at having been effectively left alone on the beach whilst his companion slept. But it was impossible to feel bored, there was nothing further from his mind- he was sat with Severus and he was giddy with excitement just to be in his company. He might as well be sat stretched out on the pebbled beach, tail wagging like Padfoot.  

There was a sense within him that wanted to treat this adventure like a romantic getaway, despite the fact that what existed between the two of them was not exactly romantic.  

He had not had as much sex as this in ... ever, he smirked at himself.  

He had the excuse of having been imprisoned at a young age for twelve years, and then living on the run for another year, and then locked away in Grimmauld Place and then the Veil... 

Thinking about his piteous life was a mood killer for him.  

He preferred to think about the unbelievable sex he was currently having with a man he would never have expected such voraciousness from.  

He wondered if there was a part of Severus that would accept something like a dinner date with him, at the restaurant by the gallery that they had passed earlier. Would it even register as a dinner date to him? He would not want to... make things awkward with Severus, not now that they were getting on better than ever.  

As he stood up from the deckchair quietly, he decided he would treat it like a date in his own head- he would brush it off if, on the off chance Severus noticed and pushed back at the idea. He used his wand to dry his body entirely, he changed into his clothes, using the towel for privacy despite the practically deserted beach that afternoon.  

He wondered if Severus would notice that he had gone for a short detour from the beach- he wondered if he would grow worried about his absence and he had to stop the drive of his thoughts at this point because there was little chance Severus would worry about his absence.  

He was, after all, keeping track of the time that was left until Sirius’ portboat arrived and carried him off.  

They may be getting on better than ever but that did not mean.... anything.  

It didn’t mean anything.  

He lit a cigarette as he made his way up the pebbled hill, shoes slinking in the slipping stones.  

He made his way to the pavement where seaside shops resided, passer-byes walked their dogs, and children rode bicycles passed him. He smiled to himself, at the quaint little lives people had on Drobhna, never too far from the sea. He managed to find the pathway to the gallery, an exhibition due to be open to the public later that evening and into the night. He wondered if Severus was interested in art- fuck knows he wasn’t interested, but he would look at the pretty paintings if Severus wanted to.  

Stepping into the restaurant, the smell of spices and garlic so deliciously pungent his mouth watered instantly. A woman in a bright red robe looked up as he entered the restaurant, ducking his head as he stepped through the doorway.  

“How can I help you, sir?” she asked, standing politely by the kitchen door where she had been sweeping.  

“Can I book a table for two? For this evening?” Sirius asked, wishing he could devour a plate of whatever was cooking in the kitchen there and then.  

The woman smiled, nodding and summoning a notebook from the kitchen with her wand. A clang of pans rung from the kitchen, a lively din of noise that the woman spoke over to gather more details.  

“Does anyone have any allergies?” she asked, jotting down that- as far as Sirius knew, neither him nor Severus had any allergies or intolerances to food.  

Sirius suggested that they will arrive at half seven, it gave Severus plenty of time to sleep and hopefully wake up in the mood to eat something. In the meantime, Sirius thought, as he stepped outside the restaurant, he would satisfy his hunger with a quick coffee and a donut on the beach.  

. . .  

Each step he took away from the centre of town, Sirius wondered if he had made a mistake booking a table for two for dinner. For himself and Severus. In his mind, he tried to reason that it was just dinner, just food, just really lovely smelling food.  

But he knew he was lying to himself once again about something related to his interactions with Severus- even this word, ‘ interactions’ was denial: he meant to say ‘his feelings with Severus’, and even then... it was ‘his feelings for Severus.’  

He was trying to tell himself it was just dinner, that they both needed to eat, but this was a disappointment screaming in his own chest.  

He wanted it to be more. To mean more. 

He wanted to share a meal with Severus and for it to be as intimate as when they fucked.  

He wanted it to be as sensational as when he looked deep into his eyes as Severus came into his hand...  

He wanted it to mean that Severus wanted to eat dinner with him and have it mean the same thing for Severus as it did for him.  

But he knew he was setting himself up for heartache.  

As he made his way back to the beach, seeing the deck chair populated by the still sleeping dark haired man, he knew that there was no sidestepping destiny.  

. . . 

Severus opened his eyes, his sleep jostled by the presence of someone sat down beside him, the sounds that are inherent to the company of another human being. The sounds he needed to get used to never knowing again: the sound of someone’s boots sinking in pebbles as he made his way towards him, the sound of a lighter that was not his own lighting up for a cigarette, and the sound of a rich inhale of breath.  

He would soon only have absence for company, his own shadow.  

He opened his eyes and saw Sirius Black sat leaning forward on the deck chair beside him. His grey eyes watching the waves go by, finding the space where the clouds met the sea somehow. He had a momentary sense of guilt pinch his sides, to have fallen asleep for so long and for so deeply on the beach whilst Sirius was left to entertain himself. Why he would find guilt inside him for this was beyond him, he wasn’t a part of this adventure with Sirius to be a travelling clown for the man.