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Abraxas Malfoy paid well for the more difficult potions on this side of the law, and for now Severus Snape was perfectly happy to be his son's apothecarist-Lucius paid for the ingredients, and his cigarettes, and for that Abraxas was rewarded with untraceable, top-quality barely legal potions from Britain's youngest Potions Master.
He was seventeen and could apparate from Lancaster to London, no problem, slipping into an alleyway of off Spinner's End and popping back around a corner in Knockturn Alley so he could pick up the order from Borgin and Burke's, in his old patched robes that maybe, just maybe his new salary could let him replace-but then again Black would sneer something about "nouveau riche not even just a snivelly greasy wannabe you should do something about the hair first oh why don't we help him the lake's just outside" and Potter would whip out his wand and before he would even have a chance to swallow his heart down his throat, he'd be hoisted up by his ankle and Lily-oh he'd just wait and see if Mr. Malfoy wanted to keep him on as an apothecary, and wrangle an apprenticeship that way.
Sixth year was done and finished, glory glory, and that left him, Severus Snape, smoking one of Malfoy's pricey cloves cigarettes that made up too much of his salary, but it was glorious, smoke burning his lungs, a sneer on his lips as steam wafted past his mouth, positively draconic. Sitting at the window of a cheap and greasy-quash the thought of Black, quash it fucking shit quash it-fish and chips shop, stubbing out his fancy fag on the worn wooden table, he turned to gobbling it tearing hot, burning his worn fingers, but at least it was something. Nightingale used to kiss him like this, mouth hot and panting, tobacco-stained, so hard he'd-well, thoughts like that were never good in public, but he did miss her ass sometimes, nothing quite like having someone warm and hungry that actually wanted you, hungered for you-nothing like Lily.
The best thing Slughorn ever did was separate them in Potions last March, when Lily hexed him for attempting to slip Black Essence of Insanity, putting Lily with Longbottom, Black at the front of classroom with Potter, and him and Nightingale in the back. Lily and Longbottom, that fucking bastard, hexing Regulus in the prefect's shower, what a coward, working busily away as Nightingale chilled, and he knew then he was in luck. Nightingale let him touch her after all, hands pausing over crystal vials, lingering gazes over purple clouds, fixing a perfect Euphoria drought (adding a sprig of spearmint, to reduce singing-and that was a lark, back in fourth year, spiking the Gryffindor table's pumpkin juice and enjoying the musical-Potter serenading Lily with "Love Hurts" and that horrified look on her face, oh he laughed so hard he gave himself a stomach ache) in the depths of a freezing February, and wasn't he euphoric when they slowly cleaned their work station and meandered into the ice and shadows of that gray day, walking her along the battlements in the Owlery, and as the last snow of the year fell mournfully on their heads, he let her kiss him. The snow he knew made him look like he had bad dandruff but she more than melted him, oh she was hot beneath his hands.
Fucking Bertha Jorkins-so he and Nightingale were snogging behind the greenhouses, well a bit more than that, her eyes glistening and her chapped lips even more so when they broke apart, temporarily wet, as she made to lean down—Bertha Jorkins, asshole seventh year Hufflepuff who couldn't keep her nose out of others' business, of course he hexed her, not Sectumsempra but he was sorely tempted, especially after the wolf don't think about it don't think about it the scent of dirt as his hands clenched against a dirty wooden table, greasy with salt and butter, clear your fucking mind—he just used the toe-nail hex, he'd been meaning to try it out, and oh did it work—her shoes split on her way to the Hospital Wing, Regulus said. Oh, Florence had been sweet, well salty honestly, sweaty and her eyes glistening, and then she had produced a blunt and asked him if he'd ever smoked grass. He had, it wasn't pleasant, high as the kites with Mulciber and the rest, it made him sick, but for Florrie he took a draft, not too deep, it stinking sticky-sweet in his throat but it didn't waft into his clothes like his cigarettes did. She was so much more chatty after it.
In Ravenclaw the House politics were almost as vicious as Slytherin, she said, and even now Severus snorted at the memory, picking at the last bits of chips: Nightingale made him always uneasy, wary and waiting rather than hungry like Lily, Lily who never had her shit stolen like him and Nightingale, who spent all of fourth year without any shoes. Her dad was a total arse too, Severus could understand that, drank a lot, but her mother was worse-that's how she died, in fifth year, tried to Apparate drunk and ended up Splinching herself all over the garden. Pure sex, that's what she looked like, eyes unfocused, front teeth glimmering as they sunk into her bottom lip as she paused to breathe. She took the blunt to her lips and closed her eyes, the smoke itself an experience, and he felt the wind stretch pass him and ruffle her short dark hair, the edges of her eyelids, into her mouth mingling with the herbal stench into her lungs. He took the blunt from her fingers and kissed her when she turned to him, grinning, smoke hissing from her nose and between her leak: hunger, and for that he could almost love her.
The girls didn't like her hair, those stupid slags. When it got warmer they climbed the old beech by the lake, high enough to hide. She wore muggle clothes, half-blood like him, mum a Muggleborn-hence the Splinching while drinking. Splayed in his throbbing lap, she spread her arms out, stretching her fingers to the edge of the sparkling green. He nearly overbalanced, so she wrapped her legs around him and that was nearly too much, and when he hissed as she shifted, she started and stared and grinned, and shifted again, and then he tumbled out of the tree, her laughing delightfully, splayed with him. Merlin be praised, everybody was at Hogsmeade.
She cut her hair first, Nightingale said, and the rest came later. Later that day they walked the battlements again, and leaning against the cold stone wall he saw her, white skin dark hair dark glimmering eyes dry lips and dark, dark robes that always betrayed some noxious odor. Did it sting him he wondered and beyond memory Severus Snape frowned, eating a cooling chip to steady himself, and he grabbed her wrists and pushed the sleeves up. Honestly, it would've been better if she bore a Dark Mark; he would've known how to react to that. Criss-crossing scars and scabs pink and red against white, who kenw how to deal with that?
"You think I'm mad," Florene observed, "and you're likely right." Awkwardly he thought of Lily, Lily who knew what to do, Lily who ruled the (non-Slytherin) girls of sixth year, and when she shifted into his lap he didn't protest.
It fucking lasted two minutes and they haven't spoken since, not even an owl since the day. Intimacy violated was more the scars on her arms than his lackluster performance grunting in the cold stone halls, the awkward flush to her skin when he finished and offered to end her, as well.
Merlin he should've said something anything when he helped her, kissed her again when she bit her lip and looked away, eyes glistening so brightly, it was always the eyes that got him, touched her face and smiled, anything, because he didn't love her, not at all, though she hungered for him, that desperate intimacy and in that filthy fish and chips shop Severus missed Lily so hard it physically hurt, and as he scowled he glanced out the window he saw a flicker of red on gray that could've, almost, been enough.