Outside, the autumn air was chill and bitter as only a wet London October evening can be. Leaves splatted against the windows of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, as if trying to wipe away the memory of the previous, sweaty weeks of unseasonable heat. A cool change had whistled through earlier, and the Potters had slipped out to celebrate Hallowe'en as best they could with the last icecreams of the year.
Sirius Black, owner of the property, emerged from his bedroom as the sun was setting, a not-infrequent time for him to rise. As the date had approached, he had withdrawn more and more into himself, snapping at attempts to break his walls and reach the man inside. He would spend this Hallowe'en as he had every year since 1981 – as drunk and as out of it as he could physically manage. He would seek oblivion, in the hope of one day finding it.
It didn't help that the household was now rather crowded. What had been a spacious house for a family of four and a house elf was quite full, what with Harry, Ginny and their family, and of course, Snape. Harry had insisted. But sometimes it felt to Sirius as if the only person who really didn't fit into his house was himself. Harry had given the house back after the War, but Sirius still felt like an intruder.
And today, of all days, he wanted to be somewhere else. Somewhere safe, warm, and preferably stocked with enough alcohol and pharmaceuticals to render him unconscious and unable to process why he was so miserable. Because he really didn't want to know. Or anyone else to know. Or even anyone else to ask. Then he might have to think about why he was miserable still about losing James Potter, and why he kept waking in a sweat, screaming for James to run, to hide, to do anything but try and stay and save the family.
If Sirius Black had a moment of lucidity in that dark place between inebriation and annihilation, he would admit that he missed James more than he ought, wanted him more than he should have, and wished like hell that Lily had never happened.
Alone in the drawing room, Severus Snape glanced at the windows rattling in the oncoming storm, then turned his attention back to the bottle beside him. It had been too long between drinks. Too long between Hallowe'ens. And far too long between 1981 and today. Nearly twenty years had not relieved the empty ache inside him, the ache which, if pressed, he might have described as the shape of a woman with long red hair and eyes which haunted him still. Since leaving Hogwarts on a stretcher borne by House Elves, he had spent seven months recovering , and a year and a half in Azkhaban before his name was cleared and his freedom restored. Harry had, of course, insisted that he come and live with them in London, and he had foolishly accepted. Like an idiot. Like someone that hadn't realised that sharing a house with the Potter family was almost the worst thing ever.
The only thing worse had been when Sirius had returned, drawn by Merlin-only-knows what magical compulsion that no-one would admit to. It had been a month of avoiding each other, sinking further and further into himself, and finally Severus was ready to leave. He would go back to Netherby-on-the-Allen, see if his parents' old house had survived the latest slum clean-out, and spend the rest of his life in the dark, dank back street of the mining town until everyone forgot him and he could just fade away.
Today, though, was the anniversary of her death, and damned if he wasn't going to try and erase it this time. Firewhiskey was too tame. Severus had concocted a tincture where wormwood and fennel, anise and rue gave the spirit a gentle green glow – and a kick like a mule. The cafés of Paris had nothing on this. If he could remember the recipe in the morning, he could make his fortune marketing the product.
If he could remember anything in the morning, he had failed.
Severus lifted the glass to the last of the rain-watered sunlight streaming in through the window, and observed the sparkle of the absinthe like the eyes that still looked into his heart.
"Always."
He breathed out the word, then lowered the glass and drank.
Sirius, standing in the doorway, stopped dead still. He had meant to use the room himself, to drink in the warmth of the fireplace and listen as the storm outside built up and threatened to take off a slate or two. He meant to pass out in a safe place, where his inert body could be moved upstairs or left with a blanket on it.
He did not mean to share it with the filthy bat, even if said bat had turned out to have been on their side after all. He tolerated Severus's presence only because Harry had asked, pleaded, and because Harry had had a quiet talk with him about his behaviour as a young lad and ways to mend bridges. Civility was all that was asked. But when he realised that the Dark and Greasy One was camped out in his library, Sirius saw red, and had come to this room to order him out.
Until now.
He knew the sound of pain. He knew what it was to have lost the one love you held deep, deep inside you, and to hold that love secret for years and years. The story of Severus and Lily had made the rounds after the final battle of Hogwarts, but not even Remus had guessed how much James' death had torn the very fibres of Sirius's heart and left him dark and empty, the cynical shell that rattled around Grimmauld Place and who could not find himself.
But second to finding yourself is finding someone else in that darkness. Suddenly, the hatred which he had held onto all those years made sense, and in making sense, it dissolved, leaving only a broken and bitter hole. He walked forward to the mantelpiece, where the matching glasses to the one that Severus held were ranged.
"Black."
Whereas the previous word was filled with pain and despair, this one was encrusted with loathing.
"I've just realised something."
Severus said nothing, not even as Sirius took a fresh glass, then lifted the green bottle and poured himself a serve more used for beer than strong spirits.
"I've realised why I hated you."
Severus glared at the wizard in front of him, and it took a good minute (while Sirius was drinking his absinthe) to comprehend that Sirius had used the past tense. But Severus still said nothing.
"Lily liked you."
"So what."
Sirius took another peg of the green concoction, and gasped at the strength of it. He almost coughed, then regained control.
"Lily liked you. James liked Lily. So every time Lily got upset or angry at you, James was upset and angry at you for hurting her."
"And?" The alcohol made Severus unwilling to move, so he calculated that the only way to get rid of Sirius was to let him talk. Then maybe he would shut up and go away.
"And I liked James. So every time James got upset because of something you had done, I hated you for it."
Severus thought for a moment, then scowled. "That doesn't explain why you picked on me from the moment we started school."
"No, it doesn't. I was a little shit. I admit it." Sirius stood in front of Severus, his back to the fire, and he looked deep into Severus's eyes as the firelight flickered in them. "I was trying so very very hard not to be the good little Slytherin my mother wanted me to be, so I picked on a Slytherin target. And that was you."
"Arsehole."
"Yes."
The admission stunned Severus, who was expecting defence, justification and excuses. The next part, though, made him question the strength of his own brew.
Sirius tossed off the rest of the glass, then put it on the mantelpiece behind him. Turning back, he looked the most serious and sincere that Severus had ever seen him.
"I'd like to apologise, Severus. Apologise unreservedly for those years of torment, and for blaming you since. I was mean, nasty and unfair, and I was blaming you for my own …"
He paused, then looked at the bottle.
"In vino veritas?"
"Just one drop. For my own benefit, not yours."
"That would explain it. I was about to spill my deepest, darkest secret and I couldn't work out why."
Severus grinned in a manner that spoke of years of cunning and survival, and being able to finally admit things. "The potion lets me acknowledge the things I keep buried. Not that it really makes that much difference – the whole fucking Wizarding world knows now. But for my own wellbeing, I need to feel the emptiness and know why.
"Which doesn't answer what you were about to tell. Out with it, Black. What were you blaming me for? The potion will not let you lie."
Sirius shook his head, as if to loosen the muzziness that was trying to settle in there. "I … "
"Tell me."
With a shuddering sigh, Sirius dropped his eyes and let it all roll out. "I was blaming you for James' preoccupation with Lily, when I really only wanted him for myself."
"Hah." Severus leaned back in his chair, proud of the power of persuasion that many years of teaching experience had brought to his voice, and glad that he hadn't needed to summon the Occlumency skills with this amount of alcohol inside him. Then the words hit him. "You and Potter?"
"It wasn't … we never … he never knew." Sirius could not conceal the waver in his voice. "All those years, I loved him, and he didn't know it. I don't think he could have. He just wasn't that type. And neither was I."
"But?" Severus knew that staying silent made people talk, so he did. Finally …
"My head said I was stupid, foolish, warped and dirty for wanting my best friend, but my heart…" Sirius pulled over a footstool, then, taking the glass from the mantelpiece, dropped down and sat in front of the fire, just rolling the crystal stem in his hands. "And I couldn't deal with it. So I took it out on the nearest available target, and I'm sorry, Severus, that was you. And it wasn't fair on you, and I shouldn't have done it."
For a while, the pair sat in front of the fire while heavy raindrops sounded intermittently against the window. Then, silently, Severus leaned over and refilled Sirius's glass. In this small action, a gift of words was given unsaid.
They sat a while longer, sipping the absinthe as the light left the room and only the glow of the fire illuminated their faces. It was this glow that traced a shining track down Sirius's face, and Severus realised that his old enemy was crying. Whether for James, for Lily, for himself, or for the loss of half a lifetime's guilt and hate, Severus did not know, or care. He himself felt more at peace than he had for a very long time.
"I hated you, of course."
"That doesn't surprise me, Severus. I certainly did enough to deserve it."
"Oh, it wasn't just that." The bitterness was almost gone, but Severus could not deny the urge to release the last dregs that bubbled up inside him. "You were a purebred, from a good background. You were everything I wanted to be, to try and impress, to get to the top. I never was going to be accepted fully in Slytherin without that. And you just squandered it. Threw it away to be … what? The clown? The buffoon?"
"I hated who we were. Who I am. But listen – if you really want all of this …" The glint in Sirius's eye brightened as he put down his glass and waved his arms to encompass the entire house, and with it, everything.
"Yes?"
"There's always Mother."
The pair of them cracked up at this. Even Severus had to admit that inheriting the portrait of Walburga Black was a burden beyond bearing. He laughed so hard that he had to make sure the bottle and his glass were safe as his body slid down the chair and onto the floor, while Sirius fell off the footstool and sprawled across the hearth rug, his rib aching with guffaws. Their shared laughter, first bitter and then slowly open and relaxed, echoed down the empty corridor and down the stairs, where the curtain across the portrait wafted slightly in the draughts that plagued the old house.
Deep in the room behind the kitchen, Kreacher heard the laughter, and smiled wisely. Healing takes time, but it has to start too, and this was a good start.