Summary: Two enemies find themselves colliding in an altogether different way than they had ever expected. Their tumultuous, violent relationship continues to have flagrant disregard for the rules, themselves, and consequently their well-beings while finding yet more new ways to destroy themselves. A thoroughly unhealthy affair with nowhere to go but down, two shadowed young boys who are thrust into men's shoes have no choice but to turn to the other. So near the end, what would it matter?
Warnings: Mature language, mild adult themes. This is a slash fic, kiddies, so if you don't like the boylove, please find the exit.
Disclaimer:I do not own Harry Potter. This is a plot bunny that got entirely out of control, and I do not make any money from it.
Author's Notes: You are completely welcome to review, and con-crit is encouraged, seeing as this is my (our) first fic. My associate (Maude) and I (Mildred) have divided the chapters into Sirius Black and Severus Snape's POV, respectively, with Snape first. Apologies for the awfulness that is this cliche. Also, I'm aware of the ridiculous name, but despite popular belief, this is not actually a crack fic. What? I know. Consider it a tool of suspense! :D - Mildred.
The Marvelous Misadventures of Sparky and tattat!Q
1. Begin at the Beginning?
Severus Snape had an itch.
This particular sort of itch wasn't one to be relieved by jamming his knuckles into the fleshy creases of his nose or by absently plucking at the loose skin of his elbow. No, this itch was a different sort of itch altogether. No amount of lotion or Madame Pomfrey's Soothing Cream for Muggle chicken pox alleviated the constant crawling sensation inside his body. He had tried backscratchers, mud solutions, potions, spells - and as a last resort, he had even allowed Bellatrix to brutally scrape and scratch at his back with her long, gaudily painted and jeweled nails. His trial and error had resulted in nothing but failure and, at last, he was forced to come to one conclusion:
it was the boy's fault.
Of course, the mongrel wasn't pouring itching powder down Severus's robes at every opportunity - though, it must be said that he had been known to draw amusement time to time from watching Severus make the cruel decision of either leaving his robes on to suffer or stripping and exposing his naughty bits to the school. However, that wasn't the case this time. Had it been, the problem would have been solved long ago (after all, Severus was well-practiced at slipping nasty sorts of poisons into his fellow peers' morning pumpkin juice). No, this particular boy, this abrasive, obnoxious Gryffindor - well, every time Severus just happened to catch a glimpse of those crazed silver eyes, he had a terrible habit of breaking out in a cold sweat and the scratching at phantom itches would commence.
Time and time again, Severus wondered if the boy's fevered touch would still the crawling. The thought was, of course, completely illogical.
But he could not help but wonder.
Severus stood forlornly in the fourth floor corridor, shoulders hunched against the chilly draft that ran through the castle, forehead pressed against the windowpane. He was not eager, you could say, to mosey off merrily to Potions. This, had any other being (living, dead, or otherwise) been made aware, would have most surely induced immediate heart failure. Severus Tobias Snape, Half-Blood Prince, Dark Arts entrepreneur, Death Eater-in-waiting, not eager for Potions? Yes, and Hagrid was interested in a haircut.
Severus, for what he was worth, had a curiously strong and stubborn streak of self-preservation. Often, he remained cool and collected in sticky situations, reason outweighing impulse and emotion. This nearly always resulted in a perfectly executed getaway, and when it didn't, the best course of action immediately sprang to mind. This was the way he liked it and was what he was accustomed to. Severus was not sure whether this particular gift was granted at birth or had been developed from years on end from hazy, petrified drunken nights with Tobias Snape. They were one in the same, he supposed. His memory struggled to reach a time and place in which such survival skills were not needed.
As of late, however, it had been thrown into sharp relief that he had taken his instincts for granted. There was only one being who was able to force Severus from his composed, carefully constructed state of mind, and he did so repeatedly, seemingly effortlessly. The icing on the cauldron cake was that this year, Sirius Black was in his Potions class.
He frowned in disdain at the gaggle of second year Hufflepuffs making their ungainly way in his general direction. They faltered at the sight of him, obviously not expecting him to interfere with their wonderful, sunny lives today, and visibly cringed in almost perfect unison. Severus simply scowled and glided further down the corridor, wrapping his filthy washtowel of a cloak around him as effectively as possible. He settled in a crook near a suit of armor around the corner, hopefully shielding himself further from the arctic zephyrs blowing rampant through Hogwarts. He squinted midnight orbs at the knight in question, scrutinizing it suspiciously for a moment. He had once had an incident. He didn't much like to talk about it.
He gazed at the rusting suit of armor as if searching for an answer. As for the question.. salvation or damnation? He didn't know. But anything had to be better than this in between.
Years later, Severus would come to regret this conviction.
Rousing himself from his thoughts, Severus reluctantly began the journey to Defense Against the Dark Arts. After Defense Against the Dark Arts meant Charms, and after Charms meant Potions. Severus sighed. How dare that barbarian encroach upon his sanctuary? A sharp longing for the uninterrupted bliss that consumed Severus as he worked ran through his bones. Decadent, swirling fumes pervading his senses, the blinding mystery and magnificence of the art of brewing astounding him every time, without fail..
From somewhere behind him, he heard a raucous, barking laugh. He froze, his concave stomach collapsing in on itself and then swelling inside his skin before retracting again. Severus barely managed to not heave right there in the corridor. The name, the face that was accompanied by that laugh literally made Severus sick. His vision blurred for a moment before he gathered his senses and placed his hand on his wand, just in case. Ghostly feelers caressed Severus' skin, and he subconsciously scratched at his neck.
He was near. Venom practically welled in the Slytherin's mouth, his mouth twisting into a grimace. Hate boiled in his very veins, heart beating erratically in panic, loathing, fear, lust.
Severus blinked, backtracking for a moment. Lust? Severus resisted the urge to heave again as, yes, his skin heated, warming the sickly, bluish canvas. A feeling that he generally associated with Lucius and the nights they commence their perverted dance, trapped and wrapped up in each other in too many wrong, uncomfortable ways to count. The feeling was familiar. The subtle coloring of his haughty face, a smooth, innocent pink. The unsubtle pooling of heat between his thighs, as well as a distinct moistness there. The ringing in his ears. The numbness in his toes. The haze over his eyes, the twitching of his fingers. Only now, as the infuriating beast rounded the corner, cronies in toe, in all his shining, sickening Gryffindor glory, everything increased tenfold with the added benefit of the insatiable itching for only £2.99. Severus nearly bit through his tongue trying to get a hold on himself. The sharp, copper taste of blood welled in his mouth and he scowled, taking three deep breaths, three steps back, three blinks before Sirius Black was taking back his air, pulling him four steps forward, and staring him straight in the eye.